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AURORA 

THE  MAGNIFICENT 


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Alone  in  her  room  later    .    .    .   she  looked  at  the  other  portrait 


AURORA 

THE  MAGNIFICENT 


BY 

GERTRUDE  HALL 

AUTHOR  OF  "the  TRUTH  ABOUT  CAMILLA, 
"the  UNKNOWN  dUANTITY,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

GERALD  LEAKE 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1917 


Copyright,  1916.  1917,  by 
The  Cektury  Co. 

Published,  March,  1917 


TO 

MY  SISTER  GRACE 

WITHOUT  WHOM  THIS  BOOK 

WOULD  NOT  HAVE  BEEN/ 

AND  TO 

MY  DEAR  HELEN  R 


WITHOUT  WHOM  IT  WOULD 
HAVE  BEEN  DIFFERENT 


39G682 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACIXO 
PAQE 


After  it  she  still  stood  a  moment,  looking  toward  the  sanc- 
tuary     20 

"I  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  "that  you  were  going  to 

come  and  take  us  sight-seeing" 82 

Aurora,  clasping  her  hands  in  a  delight  that  could  find  no 

words  to  express  it,  made  a  sound  like  the  coo  of  a  dove    200 

Gerald  turned,  and  beheld  that  lady 272 

Aurora's  eyes,  fixed  and  starry,  rested  upon  the  little  flame     290 

Aurora,  with  a  comedy  of  pride,  threw  up  her  chin,  lifted 

her  arms,  and  turned  as  if  on  a  pivot 316 

"Come,  let  us  reason  together,  Aurora" 384 


Alone  in  her  room  later  .  .  .  she  looked  at  the  other  por-  J 

trait Frontispiece  j 


AURORA 

THE     MAGNIFICENT 


AURORA 

THE  MAGNIFICENT 


CHAPTER  I 

NEAR  sunset,  one  day  in  early  October,  not  too  long 
ago  for  some  of  us  to  remember  with  distinctness, 
Mr.  Foss,  United  States  consul  at  Florence,  Italy, 
took  a  cab,  as  on  other  days,  to  the  Porta  Romana.  Here, 
where  the  out-of-town  tariff  comes  into  effect,  he  paid  his 
man,  and  set  out  to  walk  the  rest  of  the  way,  thus  meeting 
the  various  needs  he  felt :  that  for  economy, — ^he  was  a  fam- 
ily man  with  daughters  to  clothe, — that  for  exercise, — his 
wife  told  him  he  was  growing  fat, — and  the  need  in  general 
for  an  opportunity  to  think.  He  had  found  that  walking 
aided  reflection,  that  walking  in  beautiful  places  started  the 
spring  of  apt  and  generous  ideas.  Though  in  his  modest 
way  a  scholar,  he  was  not  as  yet  an  author,  but  Florence 
had  inspired  him  with  the  desire  to  write  a  book. 

Just  beyond  the  Roman  Gate  begins  the  long  Viale  dei 
Colli, — Avenue  of  the  Hills, — which  climbs  and  winds,  broad, 
shady,  quiet,  between  lines  of  gardens  and  villas,  occupied 
largely  by  foreigners,  to  the  Piazzale,  whence  Michelangelo 's 
boyish  colossus  gazes  with  a  slight  frown  across  Florence, 
outspread  at  his  feet.  Mr.  Foss,  as  he  mounted  the  easy 
grade,  and  noted  with  a  liking  unabated  after  years  the 
pleasantness  of  each  habitation  glimpsed  through  iron  rail- 

3 


4  AUIIORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

ings  and  embowering  green,  thought  how  privileged  a 
person  should  feel,  after  all,  whose  affairs  involved  residence 
in  Italy. 

This  recognized  good  fortune  had  not  been  properly 
tasted  before  another  aspect  of  the  thing  presented  itself  for 
consideration.  .  .  . 

The  consul  felt  a  sigh  trying  to  escape  him,  and  turning 
from  the  images  whose  obtrusion  had  called  it  up  from  the 
depths,  directed  his  attention  to  a  different  set  of  subjects, 
unwilling  at  the  moment  to  be  troubled. 

The  glories  and  iniquities  of  that  great  family  whose  can- 
non-balls— or  pills  ? — adorn  so  many  of  the  'scutcheons  on 
Florentine  street-corners  and  palace-fronts  are  what  he 
selected  as  the  theme  for  his  meditations,  a  choice  which 
seems  less  odd  when  we  know  that  his  book,  the  labor  and 
pleasure  of  his  spare  hours,  was  a  study  of  the  Medici. 

He  had  not  been  busy  many  minutes  with  their  supplanted 
policies  and  extinct  ambitions  before  these  dropped  back 
into  the  past  whence  he  had  drawn  them,  and  his  mind  gave 
itself  over  to  an  exercise  more  curious  than  reconstructing  a 
dead  epoch.  A  shortish,  stoutish  man,  with  a  beginning  of 
baldness  on  his  crown  and  gray  in  his  mustache,  was  trying 
by  the  whole  force  of  a  sympathetic  imagination  to  fit  him- 
self into  the  shoes,  occupy  the  very  skin,  of  a  delicate  young 
girl,  to  look  at  the  world  through  her  eyes  and  feel  life 
with  her  pulses. 

Thus  absorbed,  he  hardly  saw  the  posts  of  his  own  car- 
riage gate ;  he  passed  unnoticing  between  his  flower-beds,  up 
his  stone  steps  and  came  to  himself  only  when,  rubbing  the 
hands  he  had  just  washed,  he  entered  the  dining-room  and 
saw  his  wife. 

'  *  Where  are  the  girls  ? "  he  asked  even  before  kissing  her, 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  6 

for  the  most  casual  eye  must  be  informed  by  the  blank  look 
of  the  table  that  instead  of  being  laid  for  half  a  dozen  as 
usual,  it  was  prepared  for  a  meagre  two. 

Mrs.  Foss  was  fond  of  sitting  in  the  dining-room,  which 
had  a  glass  door  into  the  garden  on  the  side  farthest  from 
the  road.  There  she  read  her  book  while  waiting  for  dinner- 
time and  her  husband.  The  good  gentleman  did  not  always 
come  directly  home  from  his  office.  He  had  the  love  of  drop- 
ping into  dim  churches,  of  loitering  on  bridges,  of  fingering 
the  junk  in  old  shops,  but  he  was  considerately  never  late 
for  dinner. 

Mrs.  Foss  rose  to  receive  her  husband's  salutation,  and 
while  answering  his  question  settled  herself  at  the  table ;  for 
she  had  caught  sight  of  a  domestic  peeping  in  at  the  door 
to  see  if  the  masters  were  there  to  be  served. 

* '  Leslie  and  Brenda  went  to  call  on  the  Hunts, ' '  she  gave 
her  account,  "and  presently  the  Hunts'  man  came  with  a 
note  from  Mrs.  Hunt,  asking  if  the  girls  could  stay  to  dine 
and  go  to  the  theater.  A  box  had  just  been  sent  them.  I 
was  very  glad  to  give  my  consent.  Charlie  will  probably 
be  one  of  the  party  and  bring  them  home.  Or  perhaps 
Gerald.  Or  they  will  be  put  in  a  cab.  I  was  delighted  of 
the  diversion  for  Brenda. ' ' 

"And  where  'sLily?" 

"She,  too,  is  off  having  a  good  time.  Fraulein  was  in- 
vited by  some  German  friends  who  were  giving  a  Kinder- 
sinfonie.  Awful  things,  if  you  want  my  opinion.  She 
asked  if  she  might  go  and  take  Lily,  and  the  poor  child  was 
so  eager  about  it  I  thought  I  would  just  for  once  let  her  sit 
up  late.     She  has  so  few  pleasures  of  the  kind." 

Mrs.  Foss  had  helped  the  soup,  with  a  ladle,  out  of  a 
tureen. 


6  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

It  was  after  her  husband  and  she  had  emptied  their  soup- 
plates  in  companionable  silence  that,  leaning  back  to  wait 
for  the-next  course,  she  asked  her  regular  daily  question. 

' '  Well,  anything  new  ?  Anything  interesting  at  the  con- 
sulate?" 

Mr.  Foss  seemed  in  good  faith  to  be  searching  his  mind. 
Then  he  answered  vaguely : 

"No;  nothing  in  particular.''  All  at  once  he  smiled 
a  smile  of  remembrance.  ''Yes,  I  saw  some  Americans  to- 
day." He  nodded,  after  an  interval,  with  an  appearance 
of  relish.     ' '  The  real  thing. ' ' 

''In  what  way,  Jerome?  But,  first  of  all,  who  were 
they?" 

"Wait  a  moment.  I  stuck  their  cards  in  my  pocket  to 
show  you.  They  came  to  see  me  at  the  consulate.  No, 
they  are  in  my  other  coat.  One  of  them  was  Mrs.  Something 
Hawthorne,  the  other  Miss  Estelle  Something. ' ' 

"What  did  they  want?" 

"Everything — quite  frankly  everything.  They  have 
grown  tired  of  their  hotel ;  they  speak  nothing  but  English 
and  don't  know  a  soul.  They  came  to  find  out  from  me  how 
to  go  about  getting  a  house  and  servants,  horses  and  car- 
riage." 

"Did  they  think  that  was  part  of  a  consul's  duty?" 

"They  didn't  think.  They  cast  themselves  on  the 
breast  of  a  fellow-countryman.     They  caught  at  a  plank." 

"A  house,  horses.     They  are  rich,  then." 

"So  one  would  judge.  Oh,  yes,  they  're  rich  in  a  jolly, 
shameless,  old-fashioned  American  way." 

"Well,  it  's  a  nice  way."  Mrs.  Foss  added  limitingly: 
"When  they  're  also  generous.  One  has  noticed,  however, 
hasn't  one," — she  seemed  on  second  thought  to  be  taking 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  7 

back  something  of  her  approval, — ''a  certain  reticence,  as  a 
rule,  with  regard  to  the  display  of  wealth  in  people  of  any 
real  culture  ? ' ' 

* '  These  are  n  't,  my  dear.  It  's  as  plain  as  that  they  're 
rich.  And,  for  a  change,  let  me  whisper  to  you,  I  found  it 
pleasant.  Not  one  tiresome  word  about  art  did  they  utter 
in  connection  with  this,  their  first,  visit  to  Italy. ' ' 

*'I  can  see  you  liked  them,  but  what  you  have  so  far 
said  doesn't  entirely  help  me  to  see  why.  Rich  and  igno- 
rant Americans,  unfortunately — A  light  breaks  upon  me! 
They  were  pretty ! " 

A  twinkle  came  into  the  consul 's  eyes,  looking  over  at  his 
wife,  as  one  is  amused  sometimes  by  a  joke  old  and  obvious. 

His  pause  before  answering  seemed  filled  with  an  effort  to 
visualize  the  persons  in  question. 

*'Upon  my  word,  Etta,  I  couldn't  tell  you."  He 
laughed  at  his  inability. 

**By  that  token  they  were  not  beauties,"  said  the  wife. 

**It  seems  likely  you  are  right.  At  the  same  time" — he 
was  still  mentally  regarding  his  visitors — ' '  one  would  never 
think  of  wishing  them  other  than  they  are." 

*' Describe  them  if  you  can.    What  age  women?" 

**My  dear,  there  again  you  have  me.  Let  us  say  that  they 
are  in  the  flower  of  life.  One  of  them,  so  much  I  did  re- 
mark, was  rather  more  blooming  than  the  other.  Perhaps 
she  was  younger." 

''The  miss?" 

*'The  married  one.  But  perhaps  it  was  only  the  differ- 
ence between  a  rose  and — "  he  searched — ''let  us  say  a 
bunch  of  mignonette.  The  rose — here  I  believe  I  tread 
safely  on  the  road  of  description — had  of  that  flower  the 
roundness  and  solidity,  if  nothing  else. ' ' 


8  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

**We  will  call  it  well  developed,  nobly  planned.  But 
what  would  be  the  good  of  telling  you  the  color  of  these 
ladies'  hair  and  eyes  had  I  noticed  it?  It  will  help  you 
much  more  effectively  to  pick  them  out  in  a  crowd  to  be  told 
they  are  very  American. ' ' 

' '  Voices,  too,  I  suppose. 

''Of  course.  You  don't  strictly  mean  high  and  nasal,  do 
you?  All  I  can  say  with  any  positiveness  is  that  one  of 
them  had  what  I  will  call  a  warm  voice — a  voice,  to  make  my 
meaning  quite  clear,  like  the  crimson  heart  on  a  valentine. ' ' 

' '  I  am  enlightened.     Was  it  the  mignonette  one  ? ' ' 

''No;  the  hardy-garden  rose." 

"And  what  did  she  say  to  you  in  her  warm  crimson 
voice?" 

"I  have  told  you.     She  called  for  help." 

"You  said,  I  hope,  that  your  wife  and  daughters  would 
be  very  happy  to  call  on  them  and  be  of  use  if  they  could." 

"I  did." 

The  time-tried,  well-mated  friends  w^ere  looking  over  at 
each  other  across  the  table,  not  expressing  any  more  than 
at  all  times  the  quiet,  daily  desire  of  each  to  further  the 
interests  and  comforts  of  the  other. 

"Where  are  they  staying?"  the  lady  continued  to  ques- 
tion. 

"Hotel  de  la  Paix." 

"And  they  haven't  any  letters,  introductions,  addresses, 
anything  ? ' ' 

"Apparently  not." 

"Where  are  they  from?" 

"Let  me  see.  Did  they  mention  it?  My  dear,  if  they 
did,  I  don't  recall  it." 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  9 

*'New  York?'^ 

' '  No.     If  I  am  to  guess,  I  should  n  't  guess  that.  *  * 

*'Out  West?" 

* '  H-m,  they  might  be.     No,  I  guess  they  're  Yankees. ' ' 

''Boston?" 

"If  so,  not  aggressively.  Where  do  most  people  come 
from?     There  's  nothing  very  distinctive  about  most." 

' '  Perhaps  it  will  be  on  their  cards. ' ' 

Then  the  Fosses  talked  of  other  things.  But  when  Mrs. 
Foss,  after  dinner,  went  up-stairs  for  her  scarf, — it  was  too 
cool  now  to  sit  out  of  doors  in  the  evening  without  a  wrap, — 
she  remembered  the  cards,  and  took  them  out  of  her  hus- 
band's pocket. 

''Miss  Estelle  Madison,"  she  read.  "Mrs.  Aurora  Haw- 
thorne." There  was  nothing  else.  She  continued  a  little 
longer  to  look  at  the  bits  of  pasteboard  in  her  hand.  ' '  Well- 
sounding  names,  both  of  them — like  names  in  a  play.  Mrs. 
Aurora.  She  's  a  widow,  then."  Mrs.  Poss  considered. 
"Or  else  divorced." 

Jerome  Foss  sat  out  in  the  garden  on  fine  evenings  with 
his  cigar,  and  watched  the  serene  oncoming  of  the  night, 
because  he  loved  to  do  this.  His  wife  stayed  with  him  to  be 
company,  when,  without  an  old-fashioned  ideal  of  married 
life,  her  natural  bent  would  have  urged  her  indoors,  where 
the  lamps  were,  to  read  or  sew  or  even  play  patience.  But 
she  lingered  contentedly  and  all  seemed  to  her  as  it  should 
be,  with  the  two  of  them  sitting  near  each  other  in  their 
garden  chairs  before  the  family  door-stone,  he  smoking,  she 
getting  the  benefit  of  it  by  now  and  then  fanning  his  smoke 
toward  her  face.     She  liked  the  odor. 

They  only  spoke  to  each  other,  as  is  common  with  mar- 


10  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

ried  people,  when  they  had  something  to  say,  and  so  were 
often  silent  for  long  spaces.  That  they  had  talked  a  great 
deal  lately  in  the  seclusion  of  their  bedroom,  away  from  the 
ears  of  the  children,  was  a  reason  why  they  should  not  be 
very  communicative  to-night.  They  had  threshed  out  the 
matter  foremost  in  their  minds  so  thoroughly  that  there 
could  be  little  to  add.  Now  and  then,  however,  when  they 
were  alone,  scraps  of  conversation  would  occur,  part  of  the 
long  discussion  continued  from  day  to  day;  which  frag- 
ments, isolated  from  their  context,  might  have  sounded  odd 
enough  to  any  one  overhearing. 

Thus  it  was  to-night.  After  half  an  hour  without  a  syl- 
lable, Mrs.  Foss's  voice  came  out  of  the  dark. 

**When  I  was  a  young  girl,  there  was  a  music-master, 
Jerome,'*  she  opened,  with  no  more  preface  than  a  shooting- 
star.  **I  don't  know  that  he  was  particularly  fascinating, 
but  he  seemed  so  to  me.  I  suppose  he  was  thirty,  I  was 
seventeen  or  eighteen.  It  was  during  my  year  at  Miss 
Meiggs  's.  Whether  he  really  did  anything  to  win  my  young 
affections  I  can't  tell  at  this  distance,  but  at  the  time  I 
imagined  all  sorts  of  things,  that  he  looked  at  me  differently 
from  the  other  girls,  that  his  voice  was  different  when  he 
addressed  me,  that  an  extreme  delicacy  was  all  that  kept  him 
from  declaring  his  love.  Oh,  I  used  to  wish  on  the  first 
star,  and  I  used  to  pull  daisies  to  pieces,  and  I  practiced,  how 
I  practiced !  Well,  there  was  a  rich  girl  in  the  school,  older 
than  I  and  not  nearly  so  good  looking.  The  moment  she 
graduated  he  proposed  to  her.  How  did  I  feel?  Jerome,, 
the  sun  went  out  for  good  and  all  the  day  I  heard  of  their- 
engagement.  It  was  as  serious  as  anything  could  ever  be 
in  this  world. — I  'm  sure  I  have  told  you  about  that  music- 
master  before,  Jerome, — ^Well,  and  what  happen-^d  ?     At  the. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  11 

age  of  twenty-two  I  cheerfully  married  you.  And  I  was 
not  a  scarred  and  burnt-out  crater  either,  was  I?  ...  In 
the  interval,  let  me  not  neglect  to  mention,  there  had  been 
other  flirtations  and  minor  affairs.  Thank  Heaven,  those 
things  pass,''  the  words  came  out  devoutly.  "It  seems  at 
the  time  as  if  only  death  could  end  it,  but  two  or  three  years 
will  do  a  lot.  And  it  's  God 's  mercy  makes  it  so.  How  else 
could  life  be  carried  on  ? " 

' '  In  my  case,  Etta, ' '  the  consul  followed  her  story,  after 
an  interval,  "it  was  a  landlady's  daughter.  I  don't  believe 
I  have  ever  spoken  of  her  to  you.  I  was  in  college,  but  I 
boarded  outside  the  buildings.  I  wrote  to  my  father  and 
begged  him  to  let  me  go  into  business  so  that  I  could  earlier 
support  a  wife  and  family.  The  wise  man  let  me  go  down 
to  a  fruit-farm  in  Florida.  You  have  noticed  that  I  know 
something  about  orange-growing.  It  was  not  quite  a  year 
before  the  dear  divinity  whose  name  was  Lottie  found  it 
too  long  to  wait.  I  posted  home.  The  room  I  had  once 
rented  from  her  mother  was  let  to  a  handsomer  man.  I 
took  up  my  studies  where  I  had  dropped  them,  and  to  all 
appearance  there  was  little  harm  done.  But  for  a  long 
time  I  thought  I  should  die  a  bachelor." 

"I  know.  Your  cousin  Fannie  told  me  about  it  in  the 
early  days,  before  we  were  engaged.  It  all  goes  to  show. . .  . 
And  there  again  was  Selina  Blackstone,  one  of  my  girlhood 
friends.  She  had  a  cough  and  they  thought  her  lungs 
affected  and  sent  her  South.  There  she  met  an  unhappy 
boy  in  the  same  case,  only  he,  as  it  proved,  really  was  in  a 
bad  way  with  his  lungs.  The  poor  things  fell  desperately  in 
love  with  each  other,  but  her  parents  would  n  't  hear  of  their 
marrying,  in  which  course  they  were  right.  Now  you  would 
have  thought  from  her  face  that  the  separation  was  going 


12  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

to  kill  her.  It  did  n  't,  that  's  all.  He  died,  and  she  mar- 
ried. And  it  can't  be  said  of  her  that  she  was  either 
shallow,  or  fickle,  or  heartless.  I  knew  her  very  well. 
Merely,  time  did  the  work  that  time  was  set  to  do.'* 

There  was  in  the  lady's  tone  an  effect  of  protest  against 
any  view,  determination  against  any  theory,  but  her  own. 

' '  There  are  the  cases  like  Miss  Seymour 's,  however, ' '  Mr. 
Poss  brought  in  softly,  as  one  calls  to  another's  attention 
a  lapse  of  memory  or  a  slip  in  logic. 

' '  Miss  Seymour  ?     Blanche  ?    What  about  her  T ' 

"That  she  is  Miss  Seymour,  my  dear,  and  to  my  mind  a 
melancholy  lesson.  Because  Nature  so  plainly  had  not 
planned  her  for  an  old  maid.  Her  mother — who  told  me  ? 
I  think  it  was  Miss  Brown — interfered  with  her  marrying 
the  man  she  wished  to,  and  she  has  accepted  nothing  in  his 
place.  It  has  been  an  empty  life.  And  so  it  goes.  One 
can't  be  sure,  Etta." 

''Jerome,"  Mrs.  Foss's  voice  rose  to  a  sharper  protest  and 
firmer  rejection,  ''those  are  the  cases  we  simply  must  not 
allow  ourselves  to  think  about.  If  we  begin  to  think  of  cases 
like  that  ..." 

She  did  not  finish  and  he  said  no  more,  but  in  the  dark- 
ness through  which  the  fiery  point  of  his  cigar  continued 
for  some  time  to  glow,  it  is  to  be  feared  the  faces  of  both 
went  on  to  reflect  for  nobody  to  see  the  working  of  those 
thoughts  precisely  which  Mrs.  Foss  had  said  with  so  much 
emphasis  they  must  guard  against. 


CHAPTER  II 

UPON  a  day  not  much  later  in  the  month — a  goodly 
day  which  thousands  without  a  doubt  were  think- 
ing all  too  short  for  the  useful  or  merely  delectable 
things  they  wanted  to  do — a  certain  young  man  in  Florence 
would,  if  he  could,  have  treated  this  mellow  golden  master- 
piece of  autumn's  like  a  bad  sketch,  torn  it  across  and 
dropped  it  into  the  waste-basket.  What  is  one  to  do  with 
a  day  when  nothing  that  has  been  invented  seems  enough 
fun  to  pay  for  the  bother  ?  He  did  not  wish  to  paint,  he  did 
not  wish  to  read,  or  to  play  on  the  piano,  as  he  sometimes  did 
in  solitude,  with  one  hand,  to  solace  himself  by  re-framing 
a  remembered  melody.  He  did  not  wish  to  go  out,  but  was 
restless  from  staying  in.  He  did  not  want  to  see  the  face 
of  friend  or  foe,  but  could  no  longer  endure  to  be  alone. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  with  his 
hands  over  his  face,  the  ends  of  his  fingers  pressing  back  his 
eyeballs,  and  got  in  his  throat  a  taste  of  the  bitter  waters 
which  he  felt  as  a  perpetual  pool  in  the  center  of  his  heart. 
Next  minute  he  sneered  at  himself,  like  a  schoolmaster  at  a 
boy  who  blubbers,  and  without  further  paltering  put  on  his 
hat,  took  up  a  very  slender  cane  with  a  slender  grasp  of 
yellow  ivory,  and  ran  down  the  long  stairs  of  his  house  to 
the  street. 

**Air  and  exercise,  air  and  exercise!"  This  prescription 
he  repeated  to  himself,  and,  surely  enough,  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  felt  better. 

13 


U  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

He  was  on  Via  Tornabuoni.  Passing  Giacosa  's,  lie  glanced 
in  to  see  if  it  were  smy  one  he  knew  taking  tea  so  early 
behind  the  great  plate  glass  window.  No,  they  were  chance 
English.  He  halted  before  a  shop  farther  on  to  look  at  a 
display  of  jewelry,  wondering  that  there  should  be  fools 
enough  in  the  whole  world  to  support  one  such  dealer  in 
turquoise  trinkets  that  at  once  drop  out  their  stones ;  crude, 
big  mosaics,  and  everlasting  little  composition-silver  copies 
of  the  Strozzi  lantern. 

He  crossed  the  street  and  entered  the  bank,  where  he 
found  the  usual  table  strewn  with  weeklies  and  monthlies  for 
the  advantage  of  those  clients  who  must  be  asked  to  wait. 
He  seated  himself  with  his  face  so  directed  that  if  an  ac- 
quaintance should  enter,  he  need  not  bow,  and  turned  over 
the  magazines  one  after  the  other.  It  hurt  him  like  a  direct 
personal  injury  to  find  these  authors  all  alike  so  shallow, 
dishonest,  giving  the  public  not  their  thought  or  their 
experience,  but  something,  anything,  it  would  buy. 

* '  A  little  more  air  and  exercise  is  what  I  evidently  need, ' ' 
said  the  young  man,  and  again  went  out  into  the  streets. 

He  turned  toward  the  river,  and  had  not  followed  the 
Lungarno  for  more  than  ten  yards  before  it  was  with  him 
as  when,  looking  out  of  the  window  in  despair  at  the 
weather,  we  see  a  break  in  the  clouds.  His  step  took  on 
alertness ;  his  face  lighted  in  the  very  nicest  way. 

The  young  lady  on  whom  his  eyes  were  fastened  from  afar 
did  not  see  him.  She  came  at  her  usual  step,  a  happy  mean 
between  quick  and  slow,  accompanied  by  a  hatless  serving- 
woman  carrying  a  music-roll.  She  looked  straight  before 
her,  but  her  glance  was  absent.  The  passers  could  not  but 
notice  her, — she  had  beauty  enough  for  that,  and  was  be- 
sides conspicuous  in  wearing  a  costume  entirely  white, — but 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  15 

she  was  not  noticing  them  or  the  eyes  that  turned  to  keep  her 
a  moment  longer  in  sight.  She  looked  rather  shut  in  her- 
self, rather  silent ;  not  really  proud  and  cold,  but  proud  and 
cold  as  the  feeling  and  modest  and  young  have  to  look  if  they 
are  to  keep  their  sacred  precincts  from  the  intrusions  of 
curiosity. 

The  young  man  approaching  questioned  her  face  to  see 
if  it  were  sad.  No,  as  far  as  he  could  tell,  she  was  not  in 
any  way  troubled.  At  the  same  time  he  knew  that  it  was 
neither  a  face  nor  a  nature  to  be  easily  read.  Still,  not  to 
find  her  visibly  sad  comforted  him. 

She  did  not  recognize  the  young  man  till  he  was  almost 
near  enough  to  touch  her,  and  she  had  heard  her  name 
called,  "Brenda!" 

Then  her  face  showed  a  genuine,  if  moderate,  pleasure. 

''Gerald!'' 

''What  are  you  doing?"  he  asked,  with  the  freedom  of  a 
familiarity  reaching  back  over  long  years.  He  shortened 
his  step  to  keep  time  with  hers,  w^hich  she  at  the  same  mo- 
ment lengthened. 

"I  have  been  for  my  singing-lesson." 

' '  And  where  are  you  going  ? ' ' 

*'Home." 

"I  have  n't  seen  you  for  ages." 

"You  haven't  come.  One  never  sees  you,  one  never 
meets  you  anywhere  any  more." 

Her  English  was  different  from  the  ordinary  in  having 
occasional  Italian  turns  and  intonations.  His  partook  of 
the  same  defect,  but  in  a  lesser  degree. 

"But  I  have  come,"  he  stood  up  for  himself,  "and  you 
were  all  out  except  Lily.  Did  n  't  she  tell  you  I  was  there  ? 
We  had  a  long  talk.     She  told  me  her  plans  for  the  future. 


16  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

She  is  going  to  keep  a  school  for  poor  children.  We  dis- 
cussed their  diet  and  their  flannels  and  every  point  of  their 
bringing-up.  We  invented  things  to  do  on  holidays  to  give 
them  a  good  time.  There  is  only  one  thing  I  can  see  leav- 
ing a  doubt  of  this  school  coming  into  being.  It  is  that 
Lily  has  moments,  she  confessed  to  me,  of  thinking  almost 
equally  well  of  a  castle  with  a  moat  and  drawbridge  and  a 
page  to  walk  before  her  carrying  her  prayer-book  on  a 
cushion.     She  's  a  funny  young  one.'* 

*'It  's  partly  Fraulein." 

*'How  are  they  all?" 

''Well,  thank  you.  At  least,  I  suppose  they  are  well." 
She  gave  a  slight  laugh  at  the  humor  of  this.  ' '  You  could 
hardly  imagine  how  little  I  see  of  them. ' ' 

''What  has  happened?" 

"They  have  been  going  around  with  some  new  people, 
some  Americans.  They  have  been  helping  them  to  shop, 
and  showing  them  the  way  one  does  things  over  here. 
Mother,  you  know,  is  always  so  ready. ' ' 

"Your  mother  is  a  dear." 

"Leslie  is  just  like  her.  But  I  am  sure  they  both  enjoy 
it,  too.     They  have  not  been  home  to  lunch  for  a  week. ' ' 

"And  you?" 

"Oh,  I  am  not  needed  where  there  are  already  two  who 
do  the  thing  so  much  better  than  I  could.  I  have  not  even 
seen  the  people.  My  day  is  very  full,  you  know.  Piano 
and  singing-lessons,  and  I  am  painting  again  this  winter, 
with  Galletti,  and  I  am  going  to  a  course  of  conferenze  on 
Italian  literature.  That  involves  a  lot  of  reading.  There 
are,  besides,  the  other,  the  usual  things,  the — "  Her  voice 
stuck;  then  as  she  went  on,  deepened  with  the  depth  of  a 
suppressed  impatience.     "I  wish  one  might  be  allowed  not 


I 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  17 

to  do  what  is  meant  for  pleasure  unless  one  takes  pleasure  in 
it.  But  going  to  teas  and  parties  is  apparently  as  much  a 
duty  as  school  or  church.  Mother  and  Leslie  at  least  seem 
to  think  it  so  for  me. ' ' 

**I  see  their  point,  Brenda  dear,  don't  you?"  He  was 
not  looking  at  her  as  with  a  gentle  brotherliness  he  spoke 
this. 

*'You  don't  go  to  many  parties  yourself,  Gerald." 

"I  am  afraid  nothing  I  do  is  fit  to  be  an  example  to  any- 
body. But  it  does  n't  matter  about  me.  About  you  it  does. 
I  can't  say  to  you  all  I  think.  It  would  sound  fulsome,  and 
from  such  an  old  chum  might  make  you  laugh.  But,  being 
as  you  are,  Brenda,  surely  your  mother  is  right  in  thinking 
of  le  monde  as  the  proper  setting  for  you.  You  know  I  'm 
not  fond  of  le  monde,  but  it  's  because  it  has  n  't  enough 
such  ornaments  as  yourself.  With  the  life  that  lies  before 
you—" 

' '  Who  can  possibly  know  what  my  life  will  be  ? "  the  girl 
asked  quickly,  almost  roughly. 

"True,  Brenda.  I  dare  say  I  am  talking  like  a  fool." 
He  left  off,  wondering  that  for  a  moment  he  should  actually 
have  been  speaking  on  the  side  of  convention. 

They  walked  a  few  rods  in  silence.  They  had  crossed  the 
bridge,  and  were  headed  for  Porta  Romana,  the  handmaiden 
trotting  in  their  tracks,  when  at  a  corner  Gerald  stopped, 
and,  as  if  to  change  the  subject,  or  to  regain  favor  by  a 
felicitous  suggestion,  said : 

''Do  you  remember  my  telling  you  of  a  painting  I 
came  upon  in  a  little  old  church  on  this  street?  Scuola 
di  Giotto,  they  call  it,  but  the  thing  is  undoubtedly  Sien- 
ese.  Have  you  the  time?  Shall  we  take  a  moment  to  see 
it?" 


18  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

''I  should  be  glad.  If  you  will  walk  home  with  me  after- 
ward, Gerald,  I  might  tell  Gemma  she  can  go." 

There  was  au  exchange  of  Italian  between  the  young  lady 
and  the  maid,  after  which  the  latter  turned,  and  with  a  busy, 
delighted  effect  about  the  rear  view  of  her  walked  back 
across  the  bridge  to  spend  her  gift  of  an  hour  in  what 
divertisements  we  shall  never  know. 

The  church  was  closed.  Gerald  pulled  the  bell-handle  of 
the  next  door.  A  priest  opened  to  them,  and,  seeing  at  a 
glance  what  was  wanted,  guided  them  through  a  white- 
washed corridor  to  a  living-room  where  a  crucifix  hung  on 
the  wall  and  the  table  had  a  red  cloth ;  by  this  into  a  dim  and 
stony  sacristy,  whence  they  emerged  into  the  back  of  a  dark- 
ling little  church,  with  shadowy  candlesticks  and  kneeling- 
benches,  the  whole  full  of  a  cold,  complex  odor  of  old  incense 
and  old  humanity  and,  one  could  fancy,  old  prayers. 

The  priest  brought  a  lighted  taper  and,  crossing  to  one  of 
the  side  altars,  held  it  near  the  painting,  which  was  all  that 
well-dressed  people  ever  came  for  outside  of  hours. 

The  reddish  light  trembled  over  the  figure  of  a  majestic 
virgin,  in  the  diadem  and  mantle  of  a  princess,  bearing  the 
palm  of  martyrs  in  her  hand.  It  was  a  very  simple  and 
noble  face,  beautiful  in  a  separate  way,  which  not  every 
one  would  perceive,  so  little  in  common  had  it  with  the 
present-day  fair  ladies  whose  photographs  are  sold. 

Gerald  had  taken  the  light  from  the  priest's  hands  and 
was  lifting,  lowering,  shading  it,  experimenting,  to  bring 
out  all  that  might  still  be  seen  of  the  withdrawn  image  on 
its  faintly  glinting  field  of  gold.  His  face  was  keen  with 
interest;  the  love  of  beautiful  things  in  this  moment  of 
satisfaction  smoothed  away  from  it  every  line  of  dejection 
and  irritability. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  19 

Brenda  was  examining  the  picture  with  an  attention 
equal  to  his,  but,  if  one  might  so  describe  it,  of  a  different 
color.  Her  admiration  got  its  life  largely  from  Gerald's, 
whose  tastes  in  art  she  was  in  the  habit  of  adopting  blind- 
fold. Of  this,  however,  she  was  not  aware,  and  gazed  doing 
good  to  her  soul  by  the  conscious  and  deliberate  contempla- 
tion of  a  masterpiece. 

''Do  you  remember  a  great  calm,  white  figure  in  the  com- 
munal palace  at  Siena?"  Gerald  asked,  ''with  other  figures 
of  Virtues  on  the  same  wall?  Doesn't  this  remind  you  of 
them?" 

Brenda  answered  abstractedly: 

"Yes,"  and  continued  to  look.  "How  amazing  they 
are!"  she  fervently  exclaimed.  He  supposed  she  meant 
the  saint's  hands  or  eyes,  but  she  explained,  "The  Ital- 
ians. ' ' 

He  did  not  take  up  the  idea  either  to  agree  or  to  dispute ; 
his  mind  was  busy  with  one  Italian  only,  the  painter  of  the 
picture  before  him. 

The  young  girl's  interest  flagged  sooner  than  his  own; 
he  felt  her  melt  from  his  side  while  he  continued  seeking 
proof  in  this  detail  and  that  of  the  painter 's  identity. 

When  he  turned  to  find  her  and  to  follow,  she  was  kneel- 
ing on  one  of  the  wooden  forms,  her  gloved  hands  joined,  her 
face  toward  the  high  altar. 

He  approved  the  courtesy  of  it,  done,  as  he  knew,  in  order 
that  the  priest,  who  stood  aside,  waiting  for  them  to  finish, 
should  not  think  these  barbarians  who  came  into  his  church 
to  see  a  work  of  art  had  no  respect  for  his  shrines  and  holies. 
Having  returned  the  light  to  the  priest  Gerald  himself,  while 
waiting  for  Brenda,  took  a  melancholy  religious  attitude,  his 
hat  and  cane  held  against  his  breast,  and  sent  his  thoughts 


W  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

gropingly  upward,  where  the  solitary  thing  they  encoun- 
tered was  his  poor  mother  in  heaven.  Heaven  and  the 
changes  undergone  by  those  who  enter  there  he  could  never 
make  very  real  to  himself.  He  thought  of  her  as  she  used 
to  be,  affectionate  and  ill. 

At  the  stir  of  Brenda  rising  from  her  knees  he,  too, 
stirred,  ready  to  depart.  She  was  bowing  to  the  altar,  mak- 
ing an  obeisance  so  deep,  so  beautifully  reverent,  that  the 
priest  could  never  have  guessed  she  was  not  a  Catholic. 
After  it  she  still  stood  a  moment,  looking  toward  the  sanc- 
tuary, like  one  with  last  fond  words  to  say  after  the  fare- 
well ;  and  this  excess  of  either  regard  for  the  priest's  feelings 
or  else  a  devoutness  he  had  not  suspected  in  her  quickened 
Gerald's  attention.  And  there  in  the  dimness  he  saw  what 
he  had  not  seen  in  the  broad  light  of  day,  that  his  friend's 
little  face,  which  had  presented  the  effect  of  a  house  with 
all  the  blinds  drawn  down,  was  lighted  up  behind  the  blinds 
— oh,  lighted  as  if  for  a  feast ! 

He  felt  himself  at  sea.  He  had  thought  he  knew  the  cir- 
cumstances. Some  part,  of  course,  nobody  could  know 
unless  Brenda  chose  to  tell  them.  But  what  reason  there 
should  be  for  positive  joy — 

A  suspicion  flashed  across  his  mind.  He  looked  at  her 
more  closely,  and  put  it  away. 

She  might  have  been  the  wisest  of  the  virgins,  the  one  who 
before  any  other  heard  the  music  of  the  bridegroom  and 
was  first  to  light  her  lamp.  She  stood  as  if  listening  to  his 
footsteps. 

That  such  a  simile  should  have  been  possible  to  Gerald 
shows  how  much  the  expression  of  Brenda 's  face  centered 
attention  on  itself,  for  her  white  serge  dress  was  in  the 
fashion  of  that  year,  and  it  was  not  a  fashion  to  be  remem- 


After  it  she  still  stood  a  moment,  looking  toward  the  sanctuary 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  21 

bered  with  any  artistic  joy.  Gerald  was  never  reconciled 
to  it. 

He  had  the  power  to  detach  himself  and  at  will  see  per- 
sons as  if  he  looked  at  them  for  the  first  time.  So  for  a 
moment  he  saw  Brenda  as  a  thing  solely  of  form  and  color, 
a  white  shape  against  a  ground  of  gloom,  and  took  new 
account  of  the  fact  that  the  little  girl  who  had  had  pigtails 
when  he  first  knew  her,  and  gone  to  the  Diaconesse  with 
lunch-basket  and  satchel  of  books,  had  from  one  season  to 
the  next,  stealthily,  as  it  were,  and  while  his  back  was 
turned,  become  beautiful. 

More  than  that.  He  was  looking  at  Brenda — he  recog- 
nized it  with  a  pulse  of  exquisite  interest — in  her  exact  and 
particular  hour.  He  had  surprised  a  rose  at  its  moment 
of  transition  from  bud  to  bloom,  that  delicate  and  perfect 
moment  when  the  natural  beauty  which  women  and  fruits 
and  flowers  have  in  common,  reaching  its  height,  hangs 
poised — for  such  a  pitifully  short  time,  alas! — before  it 
changes,  if  not  declines,  to  something  less  dewily  fresh,  less 
heart-movingly  untouched,  less  complete. 

The  artist  could  not  long  in  this  case  be  regarding  the 
girl  as  part  of  a  picture ;  his  human  relation  to  the  owner  of 
that  lifted  profile  brought  him  back  to  wondering  in  what 
the  quiet  ecstasy  it  breathed  could  have  its  source.  He  was 
touched  by  it,  by  the  whole  character,  at  the  moment,  of  her 
face,  with  its  strength  so  nullified  by  gentleness. 

When  the  will  is  strong  and  nature  sensitive,  what  arms 
has  youth  with  which  to  prevail?  What  but  the  power  to 
keep  still  and  hold  on?  Nothing  was  in  Brenda 's  face  so 
marked  as  that  power,  except,  in  this  moment  of  undisguise, 
while  she  thought  herself  unwatched,  its  singular  happiness, 
a  mingling  of  tenderness,  dedication,  hope. 


22  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

The  genuine  sympathy  he  felt  for  her  made  Gerald  de- 
serving of  the  intuition  that  blessed  him  while  he  stood  there 
trying  to  divine.  An  interpretation  of  her  secret  offered 
itself,  worthier  of  him  as  of  her  than  the  suspicion  of 
erewhile ;  one  so  beautiful,  indeed,  that  he  felt  uplifted  by 
standing  in  its  presence.  All  he  had  most  cared  for  in  his 
life,  the  things  that  had  touched  and  inspired  him, — visions 
of  painters,  dreams  of  poets,  scenes  of  beauty,  sweet  of 
human  intercourse, — all  the  influences  that  make  life  dig- 
nified and  fair,  seemed  in  their  essence  to  be  in  the  air 
around  him,  like  scents  of  flowers  in  the  dark.  .  .  . 

The  wish  to  pray  came  over  him  again,  yet  he  wanted  to 
weep,  too,  because  as  soon  as  his  heart  expanded  a  little  the 
rusty  splinter  of  a  knife  corroding  there  reminded  him  that 
lofty  sentiments,  sincerities,  idealisms,  have  as  their  fruit  in 
this  life — dust,  derision !  He  wondered  that  without  being 
any  older  one  could  feel  as  old  as  he  did  while  watching 
Brenda  transfigured  by  her  poor  young  dream. 

Now  for  the  second  time  she  curtseyed  to  the  altar.  The 
priest  moved,  Gerald  moved,  all  three  passed  up  the  aisle, 
to  a  faint  chink  of  coins  in  Gerald 's  pocket  where  he  groped 
for  a  fee.  At  the  main  altar  the  priest  dipped  a  rapid 
genuflexion. 

As  soon  as  they  were  outside  Brenda  began  to  talk  about 
the  picture,  to  ask  questions,  as  if  the  art  of  the  Italians 
had  been  of  all  things  nearest  to  her  heart,  and  Gerald  was 
drawn  into  holding  in  the  street  while  they  walked  a  sort  of 
lecture  on  the  primitives. 

All  the  while,  in  an  independent  corner  of  his  brain  he  was 
reflecting  upon  the  absurdity  of  supposing  that  because  he 
was  an  old  familiar  of  the  Fosses,  and  so  fond  of  them  all, 
he  knew  anything  of  their  affairs  these  days,  when  he  saw 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  23 

them  so  seldom.  Ever  so  many  things  could  have  happened 
without  his  knowledge.  The  girls  might  have  new  friends 
and  admirers  just  as  they  had  hats  and  dresses  that  he  had 
never  seen. 

They  were  making  their  way  while  talking  toward  Porta 
Romana,  and  were  often  obliged  to  step  off  the  narrow 
sidewalk  to  make  room  for  other  passers,  the  street  being 
busy  at  that  time  of  day. 

Brenda  was  in  the  midst  of  an  entirely  pertinent  remark 
when  her  voice  softly  died,  like  the  flame  of  a  candle  sucked 
out  by  a  draft  or  like  a  music-box  run  down.  Gerald,  look- 
ing round  for  the  end  of  her  sentence,  saw  that  she  had 
sighted  an  acquaintance  on  the  other  side  of  the  street. 

She  nodded,  without  a  smile,  slowly.  Just  so  must 
Beatrice  have  bowed  in  these  same  streets  of  Florence  when 
she  passed  the  dreamy  passionate  youth  through  whom  we 
are  acquainted  with  her  name. 

Gerald's  eyes  traveled  across  the  way  to  see  who  might 
be  the  recipient  of  the  lady's  most  sweet  salute,  and  hur- 
riedly uncovered  to  an  officer  of  the  Italian  army  who,  hold- 
ing his  hand  to  his  cap,  stood  at  attention  till  the  two  had 
passed. 

Was  the  man  pale  or  was  it  that  one  had  never  before 
noticed,  meeting  him  indoors  and  at  evening,  how  strongly 
the  black  of  his  mustache  and  brows  contrasted  with  his 
skin  ?  The  suspicion  that  had  for  a  moment  troubled  Gerald 
in  church  returned  as  a  stronger  infection.  Had  Brenda 
expected  this?     Did  they  concert  such  meetings? 

He  might  have  said  to  himself  that  a  tryst  which  consisted 
in  crossing  glances  from  opposite  sides  of  the  street  was 
very  innocent.  In  a  moment  he  did  see  that  as  the  villas 
fuori  la  porta  must  be  reached  through  the  porta,  a  lover 


24  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

whose  lady  lived  on  Vial  dei  Colli  might  without  previous 
arrangement  hope  for  a  glimpse  of  her  by  walking  in  its 
neighborhood. 

As  we  have  seen  him  doing  more  than  once  this  afternoon, 
Gerald  here  tried  to  get  his  clue  from  Brenda  herself,  her 
face,  her  atmosphere.  Yet  he  knew,  as  has  already  been 
said,  that  it  was  Brenda  Foss's  way  to  keep  these  as  much 
as  she  could  from  telling  anything  to  the  world.  This  wari- 
ness notwithstanding  a  tinge  of  unaccustomed  rose  had 
spread  through  the  clear  white  of  her  cheek;  her  eyes  had 
in  them  noticeably  more  life.  Emotion  or  mere  self -con- 
sciousness ? 

On  one  point  only  he  was  satisfied;  Brenda  had  done 
nothing  that  involved  deceit.  Into  the  very  structure  of  her 
face,  which  had  almost  nothing  left  of  the  American  look, 
was  built  a  certain  Puritan  truthfulness.  She  could  conceal 
if  she  must,  but  hated  to  shuffle,  to  prevaricate.  She  con- 
cealed exactly  because  of  that. 

* '  Go  on  with  the  Sienese  masters,  Gerald, ' '  she  bade  him, 
collectedly.     *'I  am  listening,  and  learning  a  lot." 

As  they  passed  under  the  great  arch  of  the  Roman  Gate, 
Gerald  was  saying  modestly : 

''I  don't  know  anything  about  them,  really.  I  've  just 
been  impressed  by  a  thing  or  two.  This  Lorenzetti,  for 
instance — "     And  so  on  up  the  viale  to  the  house. 

In  the  drawing-room  they  found  Mrs.  Foss  and  Leslie, 
who,  just  home  from  town,  tired  and  thirsty,  had  had  tea 
brought  to  them,  and  were  strengthening  themselves  before 
even  taking  off  their  hats. 

Their  welcome  to  Gerald  was  mingled  with  reproaches  of 
the  sort  that  flatters  more  than  it  hurts. 

"It  's  perfect  ages  since  we  saw  you.    We  thought  you 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  25 

had  forgotten  us.  What  have  you  been  doing  this  long,  long 
time?" 

*'It  is  you,  who  are  never  at  home,  my  dear  friends," 
Gerald  took  his  turn.  *'I  was  here  a  fortnight  or  so  ago. 
Did  n't  Lily  tell  you  ?  Of  course  she  told  you,  and  you  have 
forgotten,  so  it  's  I,  properly,  who  should  be  calling 
names. ' ' 

''Have  you  been  quite  well,  Gerald?"  Mrs.  Foss  asked 
in  her  maternal  voice,  after  a  more  careful  look  at  him. 

"Certainly." 

* '  I  am  glad  you  have  come.  I  have  been  on  the  point  more 
than  once  of  sending  for  you,  but  the  days  fly  so!  We 
have  been  busy,  too. ' ' 

She  had  poured  cups  of  tea  for  Gerald  and  Brenda.  All 
four  were  seated  and  refreshing  themselves. 

It  was  a  very  large  room,  but  a  corner  had  been  so  ar- 
ranged as  to  look  shut  in  and  cozy.  There  stood  the  tea- 
table  convenient  to  the  sofa  and,  surrounding  it,  a  few 
chosen  chairs  in  which  one  could  sink  and  lean  back  and 
be  comfortable. 

"Have  you  had  a  tiring  day?"  Brenda  asked  her  mother, 
somewhat  as  if  she  were  tired  herself  at  the  mere  thought 
of  such  a  day  as  she  supposed  her  mother  to  have  had. 

"No,"  Mrs.  Foss  answered  briskly;  "it  's  rather  fun. 
I  don't  mean  that  one  doesn't  get  tired  after  a  fashion. 
Has  Brenda  told  you,  Gerald,  how  we  have  lately  been 
occupied  ? ' ' 

"Some  new  people,  I  think  she  said." 

"Yes,  some  nice,  funny  Americans." 

"Funny,  you  say?" 

"I  say  it  fondly,  Gerald.  Let  me  tell  you  a  little  about 
them,  and  you  will  see  what  I  mean.     They  are  going  to 


26  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

spend  the  winter  here  and  wanted  a  house.    What  house  do 
you  think  they  selected  ? ' ' 

''You  really  mustn't  set  me  riddles,  Mrs.  Foss." 

"For  years  we  have  seen  it  every  time  we  drive  to  the 
Cascine,  and  seen  it  with  a  certain  curiosity — always  de- 
serted, always  with  closed  blinds,  in  its  way  the  most  beauti- 
ful house  in  Florence. ' ' 

"The  most —    I  can't  think  what  house  you  mean." 

* '  Of  course  not,  with  your  tastes.  But  imagine  some  nice, 
rich  Americans,  without  either  art  education  or  the  smallest 
affectation  of  such  a  thing,  and  ask  yourself  what  they 
would  like.  Why,  a  big,  square,  clean-looking,  new-looking, 
wealthy-looking  house,  of  course,  set  in  a  nice  garden,  with, 
at  the  end  of  the  garden,  a  nice  stable.  I  was  thankful  to 
find  the  place  had  been  kept  up." 

"But  is  there — on  the  Lungarno,  did  you  say  T' 

"It  is  that  house  we  have  called  the  Haughty  Hermitage, 
Gerald,"  Brenda  helped  him. 

"Oh,  that!  But  surely  one  doesn't  live  in  a  house  like 
that!" 

"Your  excellent  reason?"  inquired  Leslie. 

"I  don't  know,"— he  hesitated, — "but  surely  one  does  n't 
live  in  a  house  like  that ! ' ' 

They  had  to  laugh  at  the  expression  brought  into  his  face 
by  his  sense  of  a  mysterious  incongruity. 

"No,"  he  went  on  with  knitted  brows  to  reject  the  idea; 
"a  house  like  that — one  doesn't  come  all  the  way  from 
America  to  live  in  a  house  which  has  no  more  atmosphere 
than  that!" 

"Ah,  but  that's  the  point,  Gerald,"  said  Mrs.  Foss. 
"What  you  call  atmosphere  these  people  avoid  as  they  would 
an  unsanitary  odor.     Atmosphere  I    What  would  you.  §ay 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  27 

if  you  saw  the  things  Leslie  and  I  have  been  helping  them 
to  buy  and  put  into  it !  I  love  to  buy,  you  know,  even  when 
not  for  myself.  I  thought  with  joy,  'Now  I  shall  at  least 
go  through  the  form  of  acquiring  certain  objects  I  have 
lusted  after  for  years.'  Delightful  old  things  Jerome  has 
discovered  in  antiquarians'  places,  and  that  we  shall  never 
be  able  to  afford.  Do  you  think  I  could  persuade  them  to 
take  one  of  these  ?  I  represented  that  the  worm-holes  could 
be  stopped  up  and  varnished  over,  that  the  missing  bits  of 
inlay,  precious  crumbs  of  pearl  and  ivory,  could  be  re- 
placed, the  tapestries  renovated.  In  vain.  They  want 
everything  new — hygienically  new,  fresh,  and  shining. 
And,  Gerald,  prejudice  apart,  the  idea  is  not  without  its 
good  side.  The  result  is  not  so  bad  as  you  may  think. 
Why,  after  all,  should  my  taste,  your  taste,  prevail  in  their 
house,  will  you  tell  me  ? " 

*'For  no  reason  in  the  world.  This  liberal  view  comes 
the  easier  to  me  that  I  do  not  expect  ever  to  see  the  interest- 
ing treasures  you  may  have  collected  from  Peyron's  and 
Janetti  's. ' ' 

**If  it  were  no  worse  than  that!"  put  in  Leslie,  and 
laughed  a  covered  laugh. 

Mrs.  Foss  explained,  after  a  like  little  laugh  of  her  own. 

**You  see,  things  that  we  have  seen  till  we  have  utterly 
ceased  to  see  them,  the  things  that  nobody  who  really  lives  in 
Florence  ever  dreams  of  buying,  are  new  to  these  people. 
They  love  them.  As  a  result,  you  can  guess.  There  will  be 
in  their  apartments  alabaster  plates  with  profiles  of  Dante 
and  Michelangelo  on  a  black  center.  There  will  be  mosaic 
tables  with  magnolias  and  irises.  There  will  be  Pliny's 
doves.  Think  of  it !  There  will  be  green  bronze  lamps  and 
lizards — " 


28  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

''And  the  fruit— tell  about  that,  Mother!"  Leslie 
prompted. 

''There  will  be  on  the  sideboard  in  the  dining-room  a 
perpetual  dish  of  magnificent  fruit,  marble,  realistic  to  a 
degree.     You  know  the  kind." 

' '  And  you  could  stand  by  and  let  them — you  and  Leslie  ! ' ' 
spoke  Brenda,  in  an  astonishment  almost  seriously  reproach- 
ful. 

' '  My  dear, ' '  Leslie  took  up  their  common  defense,  ' '  one 's 
feeling  in  this  case  is :  What  does  it  matter  ?  A  little  more, 
a  little  less.  ...  It  all  goes  together.  When  they  have 
those  curtains,  they  might  as  well  have  that  fruit." 

' '  At  the  same  time,  my  dear  children,  let  me  tell  you  that 
the  effect  is  not  displeasing,"  insisted  Mrs.  Foss.  "Such  at 
least  is  my  humble  opinion.  In  its  way  it  's  all  right. 
They  are  people  of  a  certain  kind,  and  they  have  bought 
what  they  like,  not  what  they  thought  they  ought  to  like. 
Thousands  of  people,  if  it  were  not  for  you  artists  pervert- 
ing them,  would  be  thinking  a  marble  lemon  that  you  can't 
tell  from  a  real  one  a  rare  and  dear  possession.  These 
people  have  n  't  known  any  artists.     They  are  innocent. ' ' 

"They  're  awfully  good  fun,"  Leslie  started  loyally  in 
to  make  up  for  anything  she  had  said  which  might  seem  to 
savor  of  mockery  or  dispraise.  "One  enjoys  being  with 
them,  if  they  aren't  our  usual  sort.  They  are  in  good 
spirits,  really  good — good  spirits  with  roots  to  them.  And 
that  's  such  a  treat  these  days ! ' ' 

From  which  it  was  supposable  that  Leslie  had  been  living 
in  circles  where  the  gaiety  was  hollow.  The  suggestion  did 
not  escape  Gerald.  But,  then,  Leslie,  just  turned  twenty- 
four,  was  rather  given  to  judging  these  days  as  if  she  re- 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  29 

membered  something  less  modern,  an  affectation  found 
piquant  by  her  friends  in  a  particularly  young-looking, 
blond  girl  with  a  short  nose.  Gerald  might  have  hoped 
that  her  sigh  meant  nothing  had  not  Leslie,  awake  to  the 
implication  of  her  remark  as  soon  as  she  had  made  it, 
gone  hurriedly  on  to  call  attention  away  from  it. 

''Yes,  it  's  pleasant  to  be  with  them.  It  's  a  change. 
The  world  seems  simple  and  life  easy.  Life  is  easy,  with  all 
that  money.  Besides,  IMrs.  Hawthorne  really  is  something 
of  a  dear.  After  all,  if  people  make  much  of  one,  one  is 
pretty  sure  to  like  them.  Haven't  you  found  it  so,  Ger- 
ald?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  am  trying  to  remember  if  there  is  any- 
body who  has  made  much  of  me." 

''We  have  made  much  of  you." 

''And  don't  think  I  temperately  like  you.  I  adore  you 
all,  as  you  well  know.  You  're  the  only  people  I  do.  By 
that  sign  there  has  been  nobody  else  kind  enough  to  make 
much  of  me." 

"You  're  so  bad  lately,  Gerald;  that  's  why,"  Mrs.  Foss 
affectionately  chid  him.  "You  never  go  anywhere.  You 
neglect  your  friends.  What  have  you  been  doing  with 
yourself?     Is  it  work?" 

"  No ;  not  more  than  usual.  I  work,  but  I  'm  not  exactly 
absorbed — obsessed  by  it.  I  don't  know — "  He  seemed  to 
search,  and  after  a  moment  summed  up  his  vague  difficul- 
ties: "It  seems  a  case  for  quoting  'Hamlet.'  "  He  was 
bending  forward,  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees,  as  they 
could  do  easily,  his  chair  being  low  and  his  thin  legs  long. 
His  thin,  long  hands  played  with  that  slender  cane  of  hi«?, 
which  he  had  set  down  and  taken  up  again,  while  he  tried 


50  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

to  recall  the  passage,  and  mumbled  snatches  of  it :  ' '  '  This 
goodly  firmament — congregation  of  vapors —  Man  delights 
not  me — no,  nor' — the  rest  of  it." 

"But  it  won't  do,  Gerald  dear;  it  won't  do  at  all,"  Mrs. 
Foss  addressed  him  anxiously,  between  scolding  and  coaxing. 
"Shake  yourself,  boy!  Force  yourself  a  little;  it  will  be 
good  for  you.  Make  yourself  go  to  places  till  this  mood  is 
past.  What  is  it?  Bad  humor,  spleen,  hypochondria?  It 
does  n  't  belong  with  one  of  your  age.  We  miss  you  terribly, 
dear.  Here  we  have  had  two  of  our  Fridays,  and  you  have 
not  been.  And  we  have  always  counted  on  you.  Charm- 
ing men  are  scarce  at  parties  the  world  over.  The  Hunts 
have  begun  their  little  dances,  too.  One  used  to  see  you 
there.  And  at  Madame  Bentivoglio 's.  She  was  asking 
what  had  become  of  you.  Promise,  Gerald,  that  we  shall  see 
you  at  our  next  Friday !  We  want  to  make  it  a  nice,  gay 
season.  Will  you  promise  ?  Oh,  here  's  Lily.  Why  did  n  't 
you  tell  us,  Lily,  that  Gerald  had  come  to  see  us  when  we 
were  out?" 

A  long-legged,  limp-looking  little  girl  with  spectacles 
had  come  in.  A  minute  before  she  had  been  passing  the 
door  on  her  way  to  walk,  and  catching  the  sound  of  a  male 
voice  in  the  drawing-room,  insisted  upon  listening  till  she 
had  made  sure  whose  it  was.  At  the  name  Gerald  she  had 
pulled  away  from  her  governess  and  burst  into  the  drawing- 
room. 

She  stood  still  a  moment  after  this  impulsive  entrance, 
and  the  governess  turned  toward  Mrs.  Foss  a  face  that, 
benign  and  enlightened  though  it  was,  called  up  the  mem- 
ory of  faces  seen  in  good-humored  German  comic  papers. 
The  expression  of  her  smile  said  to  the  company  that  she 
was  guiltless  in  the  matter  of  this  invasion.     Could  one  use 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  31 

severity  toward  a  little  girl  who  suffered  from  asthma  and 
weak  eyes  ? 

Lily,  after  her  pause,  went  half  shyly,  half  boldly  to  Ger- 
ald. He  did  not  kiss  her, — she  was  ten  years  old, — but 
placed  an  arm  loosely  around  her  as  she  stood  near  his 
knee. 

**Did  you  forget  it,  Lily?" 

"No,  Mother,  I  didn't  forget,  but  I  never  thought  to 
speak  of  it.     You  did  n  't  tell  me  to,  did  you,  Gerald  ? ' ' 

*'No ;  we  had  so  much  else  to  talk  about.  Well,  Lily,  have 
you  decided  what  color  the  uniform  must  be  for  our  or- 
phanage? The  thing  is  important.  It  makes  a  great 
difference  in  an  orphan's  disposition  whether  she  goes 
dressed  in  a  dirty  gray  or  a  fine,  bright  apricot  yellow. ' ' 

* '  Gerald, ' ' — Lily  lowered  her  voice  to  make  their  conver- 
sation more  private, — "will  you  be  the  cuckoo?"  As  he 
gazed,  she  went  earnestly  on :  "  We  can 't  find  anybody  to 
do  the  cuckoo.  I  am  going  to  be  the  nightingale.  Frau- 
lein  is  going  to  be  the  drum.  Leslie  is  going  to  be  the 
Wachtel.  Mother  is  going  to  be  the  triangle.  Brenda  will 
play  the  piano.  Papa  says  that  if  he  is  to  take  part  he  must 
be  the  one  who  sings  on  the  comb  and  tissue-paper.  But  I 
am  afraid  to  let  him.  You  know  he  hasn't  a  good  ear. 
That  leaves  the  cuckoo,  the  comb,  and  the  rattle  still  to  find 
before  we  can  have  our  Kinder-sin fonie.  Which  should 
you  like  to  be,  Gerald?" 

"What  an  opening  for  musical  talent !     But,  my  dear  lit- 
tle lady,  I  'm  not  a  bit  of  good.     I  can't  follow^  music  by 
note  any  more  than  a  cuckoo.     I  am  so  sorry. ' ' 
"But,  Gerald,  all  you  have  to  do  is — " 
"I  have  told  you,  Lili,"  said  the  governess  in  German, 
"that  we  would  take  the  gardener's  boy  and  drill  him  for 


S2  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

the  cuckoo.  Come  now  quickly,  dear  child ;  we  must  go  for 
our  walk." 

The  casual,  unimportant  talk  of  ordinary  occasions  went 
on  after  the  interruption. 

''And  what  do  you  hear  from  that  charming  friend  of 
yours,  the  abbe,  Gerald?"  And,  "I  hope  you  have  good 
news  from  your  son,  Mrs.  Foss."  And,  "Do  you  know 
whether  the  Seymours  have  come  back  from  the  country  ? ' ' 

Gerald  left  the  Fosses,  warmed  by  his  renewed  sense  of 
their  friendship,  and  believing  that  he  would  go  very  soon 
again  to  see  them.  But  he  did  not,  and  his  feeling  of  shame 
was  more  definite  than  his  gratitude  when  he  in  time  re- 
ceived a  note  from  Mrs.  Foss,  kind  as  ever,  asking  him  to 
dine. 


CHAPTER  III 

THERE  was  dancing  at  the  Fosses'  on  two  Fridays 
in  the  month.  It  was  their  contribution  toward 
the  gaiety  of  the  winter.  They  did  not  often  give 
a  formal  dinner,  and  when  such  an  entertainment  appeared 
to  be  called  for  from  them,  planned  it  with  forethought  to 
make  it  serve  as  many  ends  as  it  would.  Every  careful 
housewife  will  understand. 

It  was  with  Leslie  that  Mrs.  Foss  talked  such  matters 
over.  The  eldest  daughter  was  so  sufficient  as  adjutant  that 
one  did  not  inquire  whether  Brenda  would  have  been  useful 
if  needed.  The  latter  took  no  part  in  the  domestic  councils 
which  had  for  object  to  decide  who  should  be  asked  to  dinner 
and  of  what  the  dinner  should  consist. 

The  question  whom  to  invite  to  meet  Professor  Longstreet 
had  taken  Mrs.  Foss  and  Leslie  time  and  reflection.  The 
Fosses '  only  son  had  a  great  regard  for  this  man,  one  of  the 
faculty  during  his  period  at  Harvard,  and  now  that  the 
travels  of  the  professor's  sabbatical  year  brought  him  to 
Florence,  the  family  was  anxious  to  entertain  him  as  dear 
John,  studying  medicine  in  far-off  Boston,  would  have 
wished. 

The  professor  was  engaged  upon  a  new  translation  of  the 
** Divine  Comedy."  The  guests  had  therefore  better  be 
chosen  among  their  literary  acquaintance,  thought  Mrs. 
Foss.  But  Leslie  was  of  the  opinion  that  they  would  do 
better  to  make  the  requisite  just  any  gift  or  grace,  and 

33 


34  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

keep  an  eye  on  having  the  company  compose  well  and  the 
table  look  beautiful. 

When  she  reminded  her  mother  that  a  dinner  was  owing 
the  Balm  de  Brezes,  and  that  this  would  be  a  chance  to  pay 
the  debt,  Mrs.  Foss  objected: 

' '  But  I  want  to  ask  Gerald.  I  felt  sorry  for  him  last  time 
he  came.     We  must  look  after  him  a  little  bit,  you  know. ' ' 

Leslie  did  not  show  herself  in  any  wise  disposed  to  set 
aside  Gerald's  claim,  but  expressed  the  idea  that  Gerald 
probably  would  not  mind  meeting  the  De  Brezes  now. 
After  all,  the  memories  sweet  and  sour  associated  with  them 
had  had  time  to  lose  their  edge.  And  they  could  be  seated 
at  the  opposite  end  of  the  table. 

It  was  finally  decided  to  ask  the  Balm  de  Brezes,  Gerald, 
the  Felixsons,  Miss  Cecilia  Brown,  and  Gideon  Hart,  all 
intelligent,  all  people  who  could  talk.  It  was  further  fru- 
gally resolved  to  have  the  dinner  on  a  Friday  and  let  it 
be  followed  by  the  usual  evening  party,  thus  making  the 
same  embellishment  of  the  house  do  for  two  occasions,  as 
well  as  augmenting  their  visitor's  opportunity  to  make 
acquaintance  with  the  Anglo-American  colony  in  Florence. 

All  had  been  going  so  well,  the  guests  were  in  such  happy 
and  talkative  form,  that  the  minor  matter  of  taking  food 
had  dragged,  and  the  diners  were  not  ready  to  rise  when 
a  servant  whispered  to  Mrs.  Foss  that  the  first  evening  guest 
had  arrived. 

Mrs.  Foss's  eyes  found  those  of  Leslie,  who  understood 
the  words  soundlessly  framed,  and  excused  herself  from  the 
table. 

In  the  garnished  and  waiting  drawing-room,  lighted  with 
candles,  like  a  shrine,  and  looking  vast,  with  the  furniture 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  35 

taken  out  of  the  way,  she  found  the  Reverend  Arthur  Spot- 
tiswood,  of  whom  it  was  not  easy  to  think  that  eagerness 
to  dance  had  driven  him  to  come  so  sharply  on  time.  He 
looked  serious-minded,  almost  somber,  and  Leslie,  though 
prepared  to  be  vivacious  with  peer  or  pauper,  found  it  all 
duty  and  little  fun  to  make  conversation  with  him  until 
the  next  arrival  should  come  to  her  relief.  The  gentleman 
was  Brenda's  adorer,  but  Brenda  would  never,  if  she  could 
help  it,  let  him  have  one  moment  with  her.  His  love-charged 
eye  inspired  in  her  the  simple  desire  to  flee.  Singularly, 
this  was,  with  one  notable  exception,  beautiful  Brenda's 
only  conquest,  while  Leslie,  who  was  just  ordinarily  pretty 
and  wore  a  pince-nez,  received  tribute  and  proposals  from 
almost  every  unattached  young  fellow  who  drifted  inside 
the  circle  of  her  wide  invisible  net.  Boys  in  particular  had 
to  pass  through  her  hands,  receive  good  advice  from  her, 
be  encouraged  in  their  work,  cheered  in  their  distance  from 
home,  and  refused,  and  consoled  for  the  refusal,  and  sent 
away  finally  rather  improved  than  otherwise.  With  very 
little  sentiment,  she  had  a  kind  and  cozy  quality,  like  her 
mother. 

The  Satterlees  were  next  to  arrive,  mother  with  son  and 
daughter,  and  Leslie  was  warm  as  never  before  in  her  wel- 
come to  them.  The  Reverend  Arthur  was  gently  shed  from 
her  and  with  pleasure  picked  up  by  Isabel  Satterlee,  who 
was  charmed  to  have  any  kind  of  man  to  talk  with. 

Then  arrived  a  group  of  unrelated  people  living  for  the 
moment  at  the  same  pension  in  town  and  coming  in  the 
same  conveyance.  Among  them  was  Percy  Lavin,  who  had 
the  extraordinary  tenor  voice,  and  along  with  it  an  exuber- 
ance of  confidence  in  his  future  that  made  him  as  destruc- 
tive of  coherence  in  company  as  a  large  frisking  pup.     Les- 


36  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

lie  had  at  the  very  first  meeting  felt  that  it  would  be  her 
sacred  mission  to  attend  to  that  young  man. 

The  hired  pianist  had  come,  he  was  unrolling  his  sheets 
of  dance-music  and  rolling  them  the  contrary  way.  Mr. 
Hunt,  the  English  banker,  with  his  wife  and  daughters,  had 
come ;  and  Maestro  Vannuccini  with  his  signora  on  his  arm ; 
and  a  glittering  young  officer  or  two ;  and  Landini,  Hunt 's 
partner;  and  Charlie  Hunt,  the  banker's  nephew. 

Charlie,  bold  through  long  acquaintance,  asked,  ''Where 
are  the  others  ? ' ' 

Leslie  told  him,  whereupon  the  young  man  said  ''Oh!" 
and  his  "Oh"  sounded  blank,  whether  because  it  was  ap- 
parent to  him  through  her  answer  that  there  had  been  in- 
discretion in  his  question,  or  because  he  wondered  at  there 
being  a  dinner-party  in  this  house  and  he  not  asked  to  it. 
Leslie  paid  no  attention,  for  at  that  moment  the  diners  were 
beginning  to  appear. 

The  drawing-room  had  two  doors  in  the  same  wall :  people 
coming  from  the  dining-room  would  enter  by  one  of  these, 
while  those  who  came  from  the  street  entered  by  the  other, 
after  passing  through  the  small  reception-room  where  they 
left  their  things,  and  the  larger  reception-room  intervening 
between  this  and  the  drawing-room.  Charlie  Hunt,  talking 
with  Mrs.  Satterlee,  let  a  casual  eye  roll  away  from  her 
middle-aged  agreeableness  to  see  who  was  entering  by  that 
different  door  from  the  one  which  had  given  him  passage. 
Curiosity,  pure  and  simple. 

Ah,  so.  Madame  Balm  de  Breze,  spare,  sharp,  high- 
nosed,  beaked  and  clawed  like  a  bird — a  picked  bird.  Very 
elegant.  It  was  clear  to  Charlie  Hunt  why  with  a  dinner 
to  give  one  should  care  to  secure  her  and  her  husband. 
They  looked  so  fiendishly  aristocratic. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  37 

The  Felixsons.  Naturally.  Felixson  had  to  be  asked 
when  the  guest  of  honor  was  a  scholar.  Mrs.  Felixson 's 
warm  brilliancy  to-night  bore  testimony  to  a  good  dinner. 
Abundance  of  meats  and  wines  always  turned  her  a  burn- 
ing pink.  It  looked  to  Charlie  like  a  new  frock  she  was 
wearing ;  he  did  not  remember  seeing  her  in  it  before. 

Gideon  Hart,  the  old  sculptor.  It  was  his  picturesque 
white  hair  and  beard  that  people  liked  to  see  at  their  tables, 
for  the  old  fellow,  thought  Hunt,  was  phenomenally  a  bore. 
In  this  case  patriotism  explained  his  presence.  America 
quaintly  loved  his  name. 

And  Cecilia  Brown.  But  was  it  really  Cecilia?  .  .  . 
What  had  she  been  doing  to  herself?  .  .  .  Oh.  Her  hair. 
Her  hair  was  cropped  and  curled  all  over  her  head  like 
wicked  Caracalla's.  That  was  the  fashion  in  England,  he 
had  heard,  where  she  had  been  spending  the  summer. 

But  who  was  this,  at  the  end  of  the  procession,  after  Mrs. 
Foss  and  Brenda  and  the  consul  ? 

Hunt  had  a  genuine  surprise.     Gerald  Fane. 

Now,  wherefore  Gerald  Fane  rather  than  Charlie  Hunt? 

Mrs.  Foss,  coming  into  the  drawing-room,  felt  a  glow  of 
pleasure  at  the  scene  meeting  her  eyes.  The  occasion,  the 
success  of  it,  had  lifted  life  for  her  above  its  usual  plane. 
She  could  feel  how  blessed  she  was  in  ways  she  did  not  suffi- 
ciently consider  on  comomn  days  when  common  cares 
blinded  her.  It  was  a  beautiful  home,  this  of  hers;  here 
was  a  beautiful  room,  with  its  mirrors  and  flowers  and 
candle-light  and  happy  guests.  She  smiled  at  everybody 
and  everything  with  a  brooding  sweetness. 

Her  sense  of  herself  was  satisfactory  too  at  the  moment. 
She  felt  her  dress — an  old  one,  rejuvenated — to  be  becom- 
ing.    She  was  young  to  have  grown  children.     Her  blond 


38  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

hair  did  not  show  the  silver  threads  among  it.  She  was  as 
handsome  in  her  older  way  as  she  had  been  when  young, 
and  she  was  sure  she  was  nicer.  She  had  family  and 
friends,  all  full  of  regard  for  her.  Her  smile  reflected  the 
state  of  her  mind  and  did  one  good  to  see. 

Her  eyes  resting  upon  Brenda — whom  the  reverend  Ar- 
thur had  tried  to  capture  the  moment  she  appeared,  and 
been  baffled — Mrs.  Foss  in  the  optimism  of  her  mood  said 
to  herself  that  all  would  very  likely  go  well  in  that  quarter ; 
they  ought  not  to  worry  as  they  did. 

The  pianist  had  struck  up  a  polka.  One  still  danced  the 
polka  in  those  days,  and  the  schottische  and  the  dear  old 
lancers,  though  the  waltz  was  already  the  favorite. 

The  floor  was  at  first  sparsely,  then  ever  more  thickly, 
sown  with  hopping  and  revolving  couples.  Hunt,  one  arm 
curled  around  a  young  waist  in  pink  muslin,  had  enough 
of  his  mind  to  spare  from  the  amount  of  talk  one  has  breath 
for  while  dancing  to  continue  in  a  line  of  thought  started 
by  an  annoying  little  smart  where  a  shred  of  skin  had  been 
rubbed  off  his  vanity  when  he  saw  Gerald  come  from  the 
dining-room.  He  mentally  looked  at  himself  and  looked  at 
Gerald,  and  after  comparing  the  pictures  felt  his  astonish- 
ment increase.  He  could  admit,  as  an  excuse  for  inviting 
Gerald  instead  of  himself,  that  Gerald  was  an  artist,  and 
this  dinner  had  presumably  been  planned  with  the  idea  of 
having  it  literary-artistic.  But  then — an  artist!  Gerald 
was  so  little  of  one.  One  never  heard  of  his  selling  a  paint- 
ing. In  the  darkest  corners  of  his  friends'  rooms  you  some- 
times discovered  one  of  his  queer  things — a  gift,  hung  there 
as  a  compliment.  One  might,  furthermore,  grant  that  it 
did  not  matter  that  a  man  should  be  agreeable  in  appear- 
ance.   But  Gerald  was  not  even  agreeable  in  disposition; 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  39 

he  did  not  try  to  make  himself  agreeable.  What  did  the 
Fosses  see  in  him  ? 

The  music  had  worked  through  a  mighty  flourish  to  a 
banging  final  chord.  Hunt  escorted  his  lady  to  a  chair, 
took  the  fan  from  her  hand  to  fan  her  with, — himself  a 
little,  too, — and  while  talking  let  his  dark  eye  stray  from 
her  and  go  roving,  as  was  the  habit  of  his  eye. 

It  plunged  through  an  open  door  into  the  quietly  lighted 
library,  where  the  consul  and  his  distinguished  guest  and 
a  few  more  of  the  older  or  staider  people  had  withdrawn 
from  the  tumult  and  were  having  smokes  and  conversa- 
tion. They  were  considering  a  marble  fragment,  passing 
it  from  hand  to  hand. 

Hunt  knew  that  fragment,  and  at  sight  of  it  looked 
cynical.  The  consul,  who  had  discovered  it  immured  in  an 
ancient  garden-wall,  believed  it  to  have  been  carved  by 
Orcagna. 

Old  Hart  had  it  in  his  hand.  What  he  said  could  hardly 
be  heard  at  that  distance;  he  passed  it  to  Gerald  with  a 
look  that  seemed  to  ask  for  corroboration.  Gerald  held  it 
long  and  gazed  seriously,  with  that  conceit  in  his  own  judg- 
ment which  made  him  sometimes  dispute  the  attributions 
in  no  less  a  gallery  than  the  Uffizi — say  that  a  Verocchio 
was  not  a  Verocchio,  a  Giorgione  not  a  Giorgione. 

Charlie  strained  to  catch  some  syllable  of  what  he  said. 
Vainly.  The  pianist  was  preluding.  Bertie  Bentivoglio 
came  to  ask  the  girl  in  pink  to  dance  with  him.  From  the 
chair  she  left  empty  Charlie  moved  nearer  to  the  library 
door,  of  half  a  mind  to  join  the  group  in  there.  But  Gerald, 
upon  whom  Leslie  had  impressed  it  that  he  must  do  his 
duty  and  let  there  be  no  wall-flowers,  when  the  prelude  had 
developed  into  a  waltz  returned  the  marble  into  Hart's 


40  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

hand  and  came  to  the  door.  Whereupon  Charlie  changed 
his  mind  and  after  saying  ' '  Hello,  Gerald ! ' '  turned  again, 
and  the  young  men  stood  looking  over  the  scene  side  by 
side,  two  figures  contrasting  in  reality  nearly  as  much  as 
they  did  in  Charlie 's  mental  image  of  them  for  purposes  of 
comparison. 

Any  Rosina  who  sold  buttonhole  bouquets  at  the  theater 
door  could  have  seen  that  Charlie  was  handsome,  with  his 
pale  brown  smoothness  and  regularity  of  feature;  the 
pretty  mustache  accentuating  and  not  concealing  the 
neat  and  agreeable  mold  of  his  lip;  the  fine  whiteness  of 
his  teeth,  his  civilized  and  silken  look  altogether.  The  de- 
fects of  his  face,  if  one  could  call  them  that,  did  not  appear 
at  first  glance  or  even  at  second.  His  forehead  had  begun 
to  gain  on  his  hair, — it  ran  up  at  the  sides  in  two  points, — 
and  his  slightly  prominent  eyes  were  brown  in  the  same 
sense  as  a  horn  button  or  a  bit  of  chestnut-shell  is  brown, — 
while  some  eyes  that  we  remember  were  brovm  like  wood- 
land pools  with  autumn  leaves  at  the  bottom !  He  did  not 
look  English,  yet  did  not  look  quite  Italian  either.  He  was 
in  fact  both,  and  the  thing  evenly  balanced.  The  banker 
Hunt's  brother  had  married  an  Italian;  Charlie  had  been 
born  in  Italy  and  hardly  ever  stirred  out  of  it ;  on  the  other 
hand  he  had  found  his  society  largely  among  the  English 
and  Americans  in  Florence. 

As  he  stood  there,  conforming  gracefully  to  a  recognized 
canon  of  manly  beauty,  his  neighbor  Gerald,  who  would  not 
have  been  noticed  one  way  or  the  other  for  his  looks,  yet 
from  being  beside  him  took  on  an  indescribable  effect  of 
eccentricity.  The  bone  showed  plainly  around  his  eye- 
sockets  and  at  the  bridge  of  his  nose.  One  eyebrow  be- 
came different  from  the  other  the  moment  he  regarded  a 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  41 

thing  analytically;  and  when  he  smiled  those  who  no- 
ticed such  things  could  detect  that  nature  had  marked  him 
for  recognition:  there  showed  beneath  his  mustache  three 
of  the  broad  front  middle  teeth  whereof  two  are  the  common 
portion.  For  the  remainder,  a  slight  beard  veiled  the 
character  of  his  chin  and  jaw  and  a  little  disguised  the 
thinness  of  his  throat.  Above  a  large  forehead  his  dark 
hair  rose  on  end  in  a  bristling  bank,  like  that  of  most  Italian 
men  at  the  time.  He  looked  solitary,  unsociable,  critical, 
but  not  altogether  ungentle.  His  forehead  was  full  of  the 
suggestion  of  thoughts,  his  gray-blue  eyes  were  full  of  the 
reflection  of  feelings,  that  you  could  be  comfortably  sure  he 
would  not  trouble  you  with. 

"Well,  Gerald,  what  are  you  doing  with  yourself  these 
days?"  asked  Charlie  as  they  stood  looking  on,  delaying 
to  seek  partners  for  the  dance.     ' '  Immortal  masterpieces  ? ' ' 

This  innocuous  playfulness  somehow  jarred.  Gerald 
looked  down  at  Charlie  from  the  side  of  his  eye, — he  was  by 
a  couple  of  inches  or  so  the  taller, — then  asked  in  his  turn, 
a  little  crustily: 

* '  Do  you  really  want  to  know  ? ' ' 

"Why,  no,  my  dear  fellow,  I  don't,  if  that  's  your  reply. 
It  was  not  curiosity.  I  was  only  showing  an  amiable  in- 
terest." His  tone  conveyed  that  he  had  intended  no  of- 
fense and  refused  to  take  any ;  the  disagreeableness  should 
be  all  on  the  same  side. 

"Thank  you  for  the  interest.  I  am  doing  much  as 
usual,"  Gerald  answered,  placated. 

"Who  is  this  professor  from  America  whom  the  very 
select  are  invited  to  meet  ? ' '  Charlie  asked  after  an  interval, 
as  if  they  had  been  on  the  best  of  terms  again. 

The  playfulness  again  was  innocent,  again  might  have 


42  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

been  regarded  as  almost  an  attempt  to  flatter;  nevertheless 
it  again  jarred  upon  Gerald.  It  was  by  an  effort  that  he 
answered  soberly  and  literally,  without  betraying  that  the 
point  of  irony  had  irritated  him,  as,  he  did  not  doubt,  it  was 
meant  to  irritate. 

*' Another  translation  of  Dante?"  Charlie  made  merry, 
w^hen  Gerald  had  finished  telling  as  much  as  he  knew  about 
the  professor.  ' '  I  tell  you  what — I  will  set  myself  to  trans- 
lating the  'Divine  Comedy'!  It  will  give  me  distinction, 
and  then — it  's  very  simple, — I  will  never  show  my  trans- 
lation!" 

There  was  surely  no  harm  in  this.  It  was  just  stupid. 
Charlie 's  esprit  was  never  of  any  fineness.  He  and  Gerald 
had  known  each  other  from  the  days  when  both  went  to  M. 
Demonget's  school,  whence,  without  having  been  friends, 
they  had  emerged  intimates.  It  would  have  been  ridicu- 
lous for  either  to  try  to  impress  the  other  by  the  profun- 
dity of  his  thoughts.  Charlie  was  right  in  thinking  of  him- 
self as  standing  in  a  relation  to  Gerald  that  made  him  free 
to  expose  ideas  in  their  undress.  And  yet  it  was  on  this 
evening  and  this  occasion  that  Gerald  said  to  himself  for 
the  first  time  definitely  that  he  did  not  like  Charlie  Hunt. 
An  antipathy  existing  perhaps  from  the  beginning  had 
risen  to  the  point  where  it  crossed  the  threshold  of  con- 
sciousness.    No,  he  neither  liked  nor  thought  well  of  him. 

Luckily,  it  did  not  much  matter,  their  relations  were  su- 
perficial. Belonging  in  the  same  circles  they  must  meet 
from  time  to  time ;  but  if  Gerald  avoided  him  whenever  it 
was  decently  feasible,  he  need  not  often  suffer  as  at  this 
moment  from  the  repressed  nervous  need  to  repudiate  in 
explicit  terms  his  person,  his  society,  his  manners,  his  mor- 
als, everything  that  was  his.     By  way  of  beginning  this 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  43 

avoidance,  Gerald  east  his  eyes  more  particularly  about  him 
in  search  of  a  partner.  Charlie's  eyes  too  were  wandering 
over  the  small  and  scattered  number  of  ladies  still  available 
to  late  comers. 

Both  of  them  knew  every  one  present.  Charlie  had 
picked  out  with  his  eye  a  still  youthful  mama,  who  would 
not,  he  believed,  refuse  to  dance,  but  would  jest  and  appear 
flattered  and,  when  after  some  hesitation  she  consented, 
lean  in  his  arms  only  a  little  more  heavily  than  her  daugh- 
ter. Gerald  had  singled  a  slender,  faded  woman  in  gar- 
ments of  ivory  lace,  who,  seated  near  Mme.  Vannuccini  in 
the  far  corner  of  the  room,  was  devoting  herself  to  conver- 
sation as  if  she  really  had  not  cared  to  dance.  Gerald  was 
moved  to  go  and  give  her  the  chance  of  refusing,  if  she 
were  in  total  earnest.  He  remembered  Blanche  Seymour 
as  a  passionate  dancer  still  when  he  began  to  go  to  grown- 
up parties. 

Now  her  hair  was  gray,  her  face  had  lines,  but  she  did 
not  look  accustomed  to  them ;  there  was  plaintiveness  in  her 
expression,  as  if  she  had  been  a  young  girl,  really,  made 
up  for  an  elderly  part  in  theatricals,  and  did  not  like  her 
part.  It  was  some  sense  of  this  which  was  attracting  Ger- 
ald to  her  across  the  room.  Leslie  had  ordered  him  to  dance, 
so  dance  he  must.  But  the  glare  of  festivity  all  around  him 
did  something  to  his  inner  self  comparable  to  a  light  too 
bright  making  the  eyes  ache.  Leslie  would  have  told  him 
that  he  picked  up  his  party  by  the  wrong  end.  The  general 
gaiety  instead  of  infecting  him,  reinforced  his  feeling  that 
everybody,  beneath  the  surface,  was  perplexed,  bleeding, 
afraid  of  the  future,  and  had  good  cause  to  be. 

The  dinner  had  been  interesting, — he  had  not  been  much 
affected,  he  was  glad  to  find,  by  the  presence  of  the  De 


44  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

Brezes, — but  he  had  risen  from  it  haunted  by  the  conviction 
that  the  Fosses  were  not  happy.  Nobody,  if  one  examined 
into  it,  was  happy;  all  this  pretense  was  pathetic  to  the 
point  of  dreariness.  Gerald  knew  everybody's  affairs  to 
some  extent,  after  spending  most  of  his  life  in  the  same  com- 
munity, and  a  little  city  where  gossip  is  an  elegant  occupa- 
tion. This  person  had  made  bad  investments ;  that  one  was 
crippled  by  the  necessity  to  pay  a  son's  debts;  this  couple 
did  not  live  in  harmony,  the  husband  was  said  to  be  in- 
fatuated with  a  dancer.  The  fact  that  so  much  of  their  own 
fault  entered  into  people 's  misfortunes,  while  rousing  rage, 
forced  him  to  pity,  because  the  limitation  of  their  intelli- 
gence had  so  much  to  do  with  people's  faults.  He  was  in 
fact  oppressed  by  the  sense  of  the  limits  set  to  all  the  lives 
around  him  in  this  beautiful  little  Florence,  his  home,  his 
love,  sometimes  his  despair :  the  narrow  actual  opportunities 
after  the  boundless  illusions  and  hopes  of  youth ;  the  limited 
outlook,  the  limited  breathing-room,  the  limited  fortunes. 
Bars  at  the  windows,  closed  doors  on  every  hand. 

It  was  with  the  feeling  that  Miss  Seymour  was  no  more 
truly  in  holiday  spirits  than  was  he  that  he  turned  toward 
her,  as  toward  a  spot  of  shadow  amid  too  fervid  sunshine. 
It  would  be  more  congenial,  drifting  with  her  to  the  lan- 
guid measure  of  this  very  modern,  morbidly  emotional  waltz, 
knowing  that,  whatever  their  light  talk,  they  alike  felt  life 
to  be  a  sad  affair,  than  going  through  livelier  evolutions 
with  a  young  person  who  would  secretly  desire  him  to  flat- 
ter and  flirt.  An  instinct  founded  less  upon  male  conceit 
than  knowledge  of  his  world  drove  the  young  bachelor  de- 
termined to  remain  unattached  to  seek  in  preference  women 
who  would  found  no  smallest  hope  upon  his  notice  of  them. 

So,  keeping  at  the  edge  of  the  room  in  order  to  be  out  of 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  45 

the  way  of  the  dancers,  he  started  on  his  way  to  Miss  Sey- 
mour, while  Charlie,  whose  mood  was  as  different  from  Ger- 
ald's as  was  his  eye, — that  brown  eye  which  looked  upon  the 
world  as  a  barrel  of  very  passable  oysters,  of  which  he  would 
open  as  many  as  he  could  get  hold  of, — started  after. 

The  approach  of  a  stormily  whirling  couple,  waltzing  all* 
italiana,  and  then  another  and  still  another  following,  forced 
them  to  suspend  their  journey.  While  they  prudently 
waited,  *'Who  is  that?"  came  from  Charlie  in  a  voice  of 
acute  curiosity. 

Gerald,  after  half  a  glance  at  him,  mechanically  looked  in 
the  same  direction. 

There  stood  at  the  door  opening  from  the  reception-room 
an  unknown. 

When  it  was  said  that  our  young  men  knew  everybody 
at  the  Fosses'  soiree,  it  was  not  strictly  meant  that  there 
might  not  be  a  person  or  two  whom  they  had  not  seen  before : 
a  plain  little  visiting  cousin  whom  the  Bentivoglios  had 
begged  permission  to  bring ;  a  new  face  of  a  young  Italian 
introduced  by  a  fellow  officer.  But  at  the  door  now,  dis- 
placing a  good  deal  of  air,  stood  a  real  and  striking  un- 
known, in  a  Paris  dress  and  diamonds  and  a  smile. 

Gerald  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  answer  Charlie;  to 
himself  he  said  that  this  was  perhaps  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  the 
Fosses'  new  friend. 

Mrs.  Foss  had  hastened  to  meet  her.  Leslie,  disengaging 
herself  from  a  partner,  left  him  standing  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  while  she  hastened  likewise.  It  must  be  Mrs. 
Hawthorne. 

Gerald  took  back  his  eyes,  and  continued  on  his  way  to 
Miss  Seymour.  But  Charlie,  always  alive  to  the  possibili- 
ties of  a  new  acquaintance,  always  eager  to  be  first  in  the 


46  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

field,  dropped  his  quest  of  the  mama.  With  an  air  of 
nonchalant  abstraction  he  went  to  stand  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  new  arrival,  conveniently  at  hand  for  an  intro- 
duction. He  saw  then  that  there  were  two  fine  new  birds ; 
the  light  and  size  of  the  one  had  at  first  obscured  the  other, 
though  she,  too,  had  on  a  Paris  dress  and  diamonds  and  a 
smile.  But  the  dress — though  there  could  be  little  differ- 
ence in  the  women's  age,  both  were  young,  without  being 
unripe  girls, — was  of  soberer  tones ;  a  sage  green  moire  with 
pale  coffee-colored  lace ;  and  the  jewels  were  more  modest, 
and  the  smile  was  smaller,  its  beam  did  not  carry  so  far, 
nor  was  perched  on  so  considerable  an  eminence. 

As  he  had  known  she  would  do,  Mrs.  Foss  after  a  moment 
looked  about  her  for  men  to  introduce.     And  there  he  was. 

Mrs.  Hawthorne.     Miss  Madison. 

Leslie  had  at  the  same  moment  brought  up  Captain  Yi- 
viani,  who  spoke  a  little  English,  and  liked  very  much  to 
practise  it  with  the  charming  American  ladies,  as  he  told 
them. 

Mrs.  Foss  lingered  awhile,  helping  the  progress  of  the 
acquaintance  by  bits  of  elucidation  and  compliment,  then, 
when  the  thing  was  under  way,  withdrew  so  adroitly  that 
she  was  not  missed.  A  young  man,  coming  up  to  importune 
Leslie  for  a  promised  dance,  was  allowed  to  carry  her  off; 
Miss  Madison,  assured  by  the  capitano  that  he  could  dance 
the  American  waltz,  trusted  herself,  though  a  little  doubt- 
fully, to  his  arms;  and  Charlie  was  left  with  Mrs.  Haw- 
thorne. 

"Shall  we  take  a  turn?''  he  offered. 

*'Me?"  The  lady  gave  him  a  look  sidewise  from  dewy 
blue  eyes,  as  if  to  see  whether  he  were  serious.  He  per- 
ceived that  she  with  effort  kept  her  dimples  from  denting  in. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  47 

He  could  not  be  sure  what  the  joke  was.  But  she  went  on, 
as  if  there  had  been  no  joke :  ''I  was  brought  up  a  Baptist. 
My  pa  and  ma  considered  it  wicked  to  dance,  so  would 
never  let  me  learn.     It  does  n  't  look  very  wicked  to  me. '  ^ 

She  watched  the  dancers  with  an  earnestly  following  eye, 
preoccupied,  he  supposed,  with  the  moral  aspect  of  their 
embraces  and  gyrations. 

*'It  looks  easy  enough,''  she  said,  with  suppressed  excite- 
ment, immensely  fascinated.  ''I  should  think  anybody 
could  do  that.  You  hop  on  this  foot,  you  slide,  you  hop 
on  that  foot,  you  slide.  I  believe  I  could  do  it.  No,  no,  I 
must  n  't  let  myself  be  tempted.  I  don 't  want  to  be  a  sight. ' ' 
Her  voice  had  wavered ;  it  suddenly  came  out  bold.  ' '  My 
land!"  she  exclaimed  full-bloodedly,  'Hhere  goes  a  woman 
who  's  not  a  bit  slimmer  than  me !  Look  here,  let  's  try. 
Not  right  before  everybody.  I  see  a  side  room  where  it  's 
nice  and  dark.  Come  on  in  there."  As,  hardly  muffling 
a  gleam  of  peculiar  and  novel  amusement,  he  escorted  her 
toward  the  room  indicated,  she  reassured  him,  "I  'm  big, 
but  I  'm  light  on  my  feet." 

Charlie  was  afterward  fond  of  telling  that  he  had  taught 
Mrs.  Hawthorne  to  dance.  But  the  single  lesson  he  gave 
her  did  not  of  a  truth  take  her  beyond  the  point  where, 
holding  hands  with  him,  like  children,  and  counting  one- 
two-three,  she  tried  hopping  on  this  foot,  then  on  the  other. 
For  Mrs.  Foss,  who  seemed  to  have  specially  at  heart  that 
the  new  people  should  enjoy  themselves,  in  her  idea  of 
securing  this  end,  brought  one  person  after  the  other  to 
be  introduced. 

How  carefully  selected  these  were,  or  how  diplomatically 
prepared,  the  good  hostess  alone  could  know. 

* '  Oh,  I  'm  having  such  a  good  time ! ' '     Mrs.  Hawthorne 


48  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

sighed  from  a  full  and  happy  heart,  later  in  the  evening, 
having  gone  to  sit  beside  her  hostess  on  the  little  corner 
sofa  which  that  tired  woman  had  selected  for  a  moment's 
rest.  The  dancing  was  passing  before  them.  ''It 's  the 
loveliest  party  I  ever  was  to.  What  delightful  friends  you 
have,  Mrs.  Foss,  and  what  a  lot  of  them !  I  Ve  made  ever 
so  many  friends,  too,  this  evening.  Mrs.  Satterlee  has  told 
me  about  the  Home  she  's  interested  in,  and  Miss  Seymour 
about  the  church-fair,  and  I  've  had  a  good  talk  with  the 
minister.  Those  are  three  nice  girls  of  the  banker 's,  are  n  't 
they  ?  Florence,  Francesca,  and  Beatrice,  commonly  known 
as  Flick,  Fran,  and  Trix,  they  told  me.  Mr.  Hunt,  the 
nephew,  is  nice,  too;  we  get  on  like  sliding  down-hill. 
They  're  all  going  to  come  and  see  me. —  Mrs.  Foss," — 
her  attention  had  veered, — "do  look  at  that  little  fellow 
playing  the  piano!  Isn't  he  great!  But  isn't  he  comical, 
too !  I  Ve  been  noticing  him  all  the  evening.  He  fasci- 
nates me.  I  never  heard  such  splendid  playing.  The 
bouncing  parts  make  my  feet  twitch  to  dance,  but  the  sigh- 
ful,  wind-in-the-willow  parts  make  me  want  to  just  lean 
back  and  close  my  eyes.  I  could  listen  till  the  cows  come 
home.     I  call  it  a  wonderful  gift. ' ' 

Mrs.  Foss  looked  over  at  the  little  Italian,  the  unpreten- 
tious musical  hack  whom  one  sent  for  when  there  was  to 
be  dancing,  and  paid — it  was  all  he  asked — so  very  little. 
Her  eyebrows  went  up  a  point  as  she  smiled.  It  was  true, 
she  remarked  it  for  the  first  time,  that  his  hands  flew  over 
the  keys  with  an  air  of  breezy  virtuosity.  He  raised  them 
from  the  keyboard  and  brought  them  down  again  with  the 
action  of  a  snorting  high-stepping  horse.  When  the  pas- 
sage was  loud  he  nearly  lifted  himself  off  the  stool  with 
pounding ;  when  it  was  soft  he  tickled  the  ivories  with  the 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  49 

delicacy  of  raindrops,  at  the  same  time  diminishing  his 
person  till  he  seemed  the  size  of  a  fairy.  Now  and  then 
he  tossed  his  head,  as  if  champing  a  bit,  and  the  bunch  of 
black  frizz  over  his  left  temple  trembled.  A  decidedly 
comic  figure  he  appeared  to  Mrs.  Foss. 

**I  will  tell  Signor  Ceccherelli  what  you  say,"  she  amiably 
promised.     ' '  I  am  sure  it  will  please  him. ' ' 

Leslie,  whose  responsibilities  kept  her  from  dancing  her 
young  fill  at  her  own  parties,  sought  Mrs.  Hawthorne  still 
later  in  the  evening,  when  she  thought  that  lady  might 
have  had  enough  of  Mr.  Hunt  senior  sitting  beside  her. 
The  heavy  old  banker  was  not  considered  very  entertaining, 
and  everybody  in  Florence  knew  his  way  of  sticking  at  the 
side  of  a  good-looking  woman.  Lest  this  one,  so  evidently 
making  herself  pleasant,  should  be  unduly  taxed,  Leslie 
stepped  in  to  free  her,  tactfully  interested  the  banker  in  a 
game  of  cards  going  on  upstairs,  and  took  the  place  he  va- 
cated— took  it  for  just  a  minute,  as  a  bird  perches. 

**No,  you  don't!"  Mrs.  Hawthorne  laid  a  hand  on  her 
arm  when  she  seemed  near  dashing  off  to  bring  somebody 
else  to  present.  ' '  You  've  done  the  social  act  till  you  ought 
to  be  tired,  if  you  aren't.  Sit  here  by  me  a  moment  and 
take  it  easy.  This  party  does  n  't  need  an}^  nursing.  It  's 
the  loveliest  party  I  ever  was  to." 

Leslie  looked  off  in  front  of  her  to  verify  the  statement, 
and  unreluctantly  settled  down  on  the  little  sofa  to  rest 
awhile.  She  liked  Mrs.  Hawthorne.  One  could  not  help 
liking  her,  as  she  had  had  occasion  to  assert  and  reassert 
in  defense  against  a  vague  body  of  reasons  for  not  adopt- 
ing the  new-comer  into  the  sacred  circle  of  friends,  or 
launching  her  on  the  waters  of  their  little  world.  Now,  as 
they  chatted,  she  said  to  herself  again  that  if  Mrs.  Haw- 


50  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

thorne's  homeliness  of  phrase  were  not  a  simple  thing  of 
playfulness,  a  disclaimer  of  the  affectation  of  elegance  in 
talk  as  stilted,  bumptious,  unsuited  to  a  proper  modesty,  it 
could  very  well  pass  for  that.  Mrs.  Hawthorne  seldom  ex- 
pressed herself  quite  seriously.  As  she  seldom  looked  seri- 
ous either,  one  could  hardly  hear  her  say  it  was  the  love- 
liest party  she  ever  was  to  without  suspecting  her  of  a 
humorous  intention.  By  the  sly  gleam  of  her  eye  one  should 
know  she  was  doing  it  to  amuse  you,  imitating  a  child,  a 
country-woman,  a  shop-girl,  for  the  sake  of  promoting  an 
easy  pleasantness.  With  her  bearing  of  entire  dignity,  her 
honest  handsomeness,  her  air  of  secure  and  generous  wealth, 
she  was  truly  not  one  whom  the  ordinary  public  would  feel 
disposed  to  seek  reasons  for  excluding.  Leslie  and  her 
mother  had  refrained  from  presenting  to  her  particular 
persons  in  the  company.  All  remarks  heard  from  those 
who  had  been  presented  led  to  an  almost  certainty  that  the 
new  Americans  were  a  success. 

"Do  look  at  Estelle!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hawthorne. 
''She  's  been  dancing  one  dance  after  the  other,  and  sits 
there  now  looking  cool  as  a  cucumber.  I  would  have  her 
life  if  it  could  make  me  into  a  bone  like  her.  Miss  Foss," — 
she  was  diverted  from  the  envious  contemplation  of  Es- 
telle, — "who  is  that  lovely  girl  over  there?" 

"Which  one?     There  are  so  many  to-night!" 

' '  The  white  one  with  the  knob  of  dark  hair  down  in  her 
neck.  An  Italian,  I  guess.  Rather  small.  See  who  I 
mean?  There.  She  's  going  to  speak  to  the  little  fellow 
at  the  piano." 

Leslie  looked,  but  did  not  at  once  answer.  The  girl  in 
white  was  indeed  strangely,  at  this  moment  poignantly, 
lovely.     Some  intensity  of  repressed  feeling  made  her  cheek 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  51 

of  a  white-rose  pallor,  and  her  dark  eyes,  those  spots  of 
velvet  shadow,  mysteriously  deep.  She  had  gone  where 
the  piano  stood  in  a  bower  of  palm  and  bamboo,  with  Signor 
Ceecherelli  seated  before  it,  busy  wiping  the  sweat  of  his 
brow.  More  than  one  had  gone  to  him  that  evening  to  ask 
for  some  favorite  piece.  She  was  perhaps  just  requesting 
him  to  play  The  Blue  Danube,  or  La  Manola  or  Bavar- 
dage,  and  it  was  merely  the  romantic  way  of  her  beauty  to 
express  a  sense  of  doom.  She  spoke  quietly  to  the  pianist, 
who  looked  at  her  while  she  spoke  and  when  she  ceased  made 
with  his  head  a  motion  of  assent.  She  turned  and  went 
from  the  room. 

''It  is  my  sister  Brenda,"  said  Leslie.  "How  singular 
you  should  not  recognize  her ! ' ' 

"I  've  never  met  her,  my  dear.  You  don 't  remember. 
The  time  I  came  to  tea  she  was  in  town  taking  a  music  les- 
son. The  time  I  came  to  dinner  she  was  in  bed  with  a 
headache.  Well,  well,  she  's  not  a  bit  like  the  rest  of  you, 
is  she?     I  took  her  for  an  Italian.'' 

"She  was  only  twelve  when  we  came  over  here,  it  has 
somehow  molded  her.  I  was  seventeen;  too  old,  I  fancy, 
to  change.  Brenda  is  going  back  to  America  before  long, 
to  be  with  our  aunt,  father's  sister,  for  whom  Brenda  was 
named.  It  was  only  decided  a  day  or  two  ago,  when  we 
heard  from  some  friends  who  are  going  and  will  take  her 
under  their  wing.  And  if  she  goes  there  's  no  telling  when 
she  will  come  back,  you  see,  because  with  every  change  of 
administration  father  may  be  recalled.  And  Italy  has  been 
her  home  so  long,  all  her  friends  are  here.  It  's  no  wonder 
she  doesn't  look  exactly  light  of  heart." 

"No,  poor  child!" 

There  was  a  sympathetic  silence,  after  which,  "Who  is 


52  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

that?"  Mrs.  Hawthorne  asked,  to  take  their  minds  off  the 
intrusive  sadnesses  of  life.  With  her  gaze  across  the  room 
she  counted,  "One,  two,  three,  four,  to  the  left  of  the 
piano,  with  his  hands  behind  him  and  a  round  glass  in  his 
eye." 

Leslie  looked  over  at  a  figure  of  whom  it  was  natural  to 
ask  who  that  was,  it  so  surely  looked  like  Somebody — though 
Mrs.  Hawthorne  had  very  likely  asked  because,  merely,  in 
her  eyes  he  was  queer.  It  was  an  oldish  man,  dressed  with 
marked  elegance,  white  tie,  white  waistcoat,  white  flower  at 
his  lapel.  The  whole  of  worldly  wisdom  dwelt  in  his  weary 
eye.  He  had  yellow  and  withered  cheeks,  black  hair  with 
a  dash  of  white  above  the  ears,  and  a  mustache  whose  thick- 
est part  curved  over  his  mouth  like  a  black  lacquer  box-lid, 
while  its  long  ends,  stiff  as  thorns  of  a  thorn-tree,  projected 
on  either  side  far  beyond  his  face. 

*'His  name  is  Balm  de  Breze,  vicomte.  He  is  by  birth  a 
Belgian,  I  think;  the  title,  however,  is  French.  He  has 
lived  mostly  in  Paris,  but  now  spends  about  half  of  his 
time  here.  He  married  a  friend  of  ours,  an  American. 
There  is  Amabel,  in  ruby  velvet,  just  inside  the  library 
door.  A  good  deal  younger  than  he,  yet  they  seem  appro- 
priately matched,  somehow." 

"She  looks  about  as  foreign  as  he  does.  Who  's  the  one 
she  's  talking  to,  handsome,  dark  as  night  ?  Never  saw  such 
a  dark  skin  before  except  on  a  cullud  puss'n." 

"I  know.  He  might  be  an  Arab,  only  he  's  very  good 
Tuscan.     It  's  Mr.  Landini, — Hunt  and  Landini." 

"Ah,  the  bankers.  They  do  my  business,  but  I  've  never 
seen  the  heads  before  to-night. ' ' 

Mrs.  Hawthorne's  eyes  wandered,  as  if  she  said,  "Whom 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  53 

else  do  I  want  to  know  about?"  and  Leslie  made  internal 
comment  upon  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Hawthorne 's  interest  was 
quickened  by  those  individuals  precisely  whom  they  had 
withheld,  for  reasons,  from  presenting  to  her. 

]\Irs.  Hawthorne  suddenly  pressed  closer,  and  with  a  lit- 
tle chuckle  grasped  Leslie's  knee,  by  this  affectionate  touch 
to  make  herself  forgiven  for  the  disrespect  about  to  be 
shown. 

''And  who  's  Stickly-prickly ? " 

Leslie  had  to  laugh,  too.  Impossible  not  to  know  which 
one  was  meant  of  all  the  people  in  the  direction  of  Mrs. 
Hawthorne's  glance.  He  was  leaning  against  the  wall  be- 
tween two  chairs  deserted  by  the  fair,  looking  off  with  a 
slightly  mournful  indifference  at  everything  and  at  noth- 
ing. His  mustache  ended  in  upturned  points,  his  beard  was 
pointed,  his  hair  stood  up  in  little  points.  He  gave  the  im- 
pression besides  of  one  whose  nervous  temper  put  out  porcu- 
pine shafts  to  keep  you  off. 

*'It  's  one  of  our  very  best  friends,  Mrs.  Hawthorne. 
Dear  old  Gerald !  Mr.  Fane.  Shall  I  go  get  him  and  bring 
him  over  ? '  ^ 

* '  No,  don 't.     I  should  be  scared  of  him. ' ' 

''Let  me!  His  prickles  are  harmless.  He  has  heard  us 
speak  of  you  so  much !  See,  he  is  looking  over  at  us  wist- 
fully, in  a  way  that  plainly  suggests  our  course.  Here 
comes  Charlie  Hunt,  who  will  keep  you  amused  while  I 
fetch  Gerald;  then  we  will  go  in  together  and  have  an 
ice." 

Charlie  Hunt,  modern  moth  without  fear  or  shyness,  but 
with  a  great  deal  of  caution,  was  indeed  returning  for  the 
third  or  fourth  time  to  Mrs.  Hawthorne 's  side,  drawn  by  the 


54f  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

sparkle  of  eyes  and  tresses  and  smiles  and  diamonds.  Fran- 
cesea  had  already  described  him  that  evening  to  another 
young  lady  as  dancing  attendance  on  the  new  American. 
He  dropped  into  the  seat  vacated  by  Leslie,  addressed  Mrs. 
Hawthorne  as  if  they  had  been  friends  for  at  least  weeks, 
and  made  conversation  joyfully  easy  by  getting  at  once  on 
to  a  playful  footing. 

Leslie  meanwhile  steered  her  course  toward  Gerald.  The 
music  had  started  up  again,  men  were  presenting  themselves 
to  maidens  with  their  request  for  the  favor.  .  .  .  Leslie 
threaded  her  way  between  the  first  on  the  floor.  Her  eyes 
were  naturally  turned  toward  the  object  of  her  search ;  some 
intention  toward  him  was  probably  apparent  in  her  look. 
As  if  he  had  not  seen  it,  or  as  if,  having  seen  it,  he  scented 
in  her  approach  some  conspiracy  against  his  peace,  Gerald 
in  a  moment  during  which  her  eye  was  not  on  him  quietly 
vanished. 

Missing  him,  Leslie  looked  about  in  some  surprise,  then 
entered  the  door  by  which  inevitably  he  must  have  passed. 
She  gave  a  glance  around  the  library ;  Gerald  did  not  seem 
to  be  there.  Mystified,  she  looked  more  carefully  at  the 
faces  to  be  seen  through  the  thin  tobacco  smoke.  No,  Ger- 
ald's was  not  among  them.  Gerald,  acquainted  with  the 
house,  knew  the  door,  of  course,  of  the  kind  frequent  in 
Italian  houses,  the  little  door  indistinguishable  from  the 
wall,  by  which  one  could  leave  the  library,  and  after  cross- 
ing the  landing  of  the  kitchen  stairs,  reach  the  dining- 
room.  From  the  dining-room,  then,  one  could  come  into 
the  entrance  hall,  whence  go  upstairs,  or  out  into  the  gar- 
den, or,  as  one  pleased,  back  into  the  drawing-room.  Leslie 
did  not  think  the  matter  of  sufficient  importance  to  pursue 
the  chase  farther. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  55 

The  dancing  was  suspended  while  the  musician  had  sand- 
wiches and  glasses  of  a  fragrant  and  delicious-looking  but 
weak  punch.  The  Fosses*  waiter  knew  him  well  and  fra- 
ternally attended  to  his  wants. 

The  dining-room,  though  large,  would  not  permit  all  the 
couples  to  enter  at  once,  so  ices  and  cakes  were  borne  from 
the  table  by  cavaliers  to  expectant  ladies  in  the  antechamber, 
on  the  stairs,  and  in  the  farther  rooms. 

The  musician  after  eating  to  his  satisfaction  took  the 
time  for  a  cigarette,  which  he  enjoyed,  not  in  the  library, 
but  in  cool  and  peaceful  isolation  on  the  top  step  of  the 
kitchen  stairs.  Refreshed,  he  briskly  went  back  to  his  piano, 
persuaded  that  the  young  people  were  sighing  to  see  him 
there.  With  new  vigor  he  struck  up  a  march.  The  crowd 
in  the  dining-room  thinned. 

Mrs.  Hawthorne  and  Miss  Madison,  with  Charlie  Hunt 
and  Doctor  Chandler,  one  of  the  Americans  from  the  pen- 
sion, lingered  on  in  the  corner  where,  with  the  migration 
of  so  many  to  the  ball-room,  all  four  had  been  able  to  find 
chairs.  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  of  the  fair  moon-face,  was  as  a 
matter  of  course  eating  sweet  stuff;  Miss  Madison,  con- 
trariwise, sipped  a  small  cup  of  black  coffee.  Miss  Madi- 
son, no  need  to  say,  had  a  neat  jaw-bone  to  show — collar- 
bones, too.  She  was  not  pretty,  her  features  were  hardly 
worth  describing,  but  yet  it  was  an  attractive  face,  as  merry 
as  it  was  fundamentally  shrewd,  as  sensible  as  it  was 
sprightly.  The  frank,  almost  business  like  manner  of  her 
setting  out  to  have  a  good  time  at  the  party  ensured  her 
having  at  least  a  lively  one,  and  her  partners  not  finding 
it  slow.  She  at  once  and  impartially  interested  herself  in 
the  men  brought  up  to  her,  and  sought  to  interest  them. 
Her  flirtatiousness  was,  however,  sedate — in  its  way,  moral 


56  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

— not  intended  to  have  any  result  beyond  the  enlivenment 
of  the  hour. 

Miss  Madison  had  been  finding  exhilaration  and  delight 
this  evening  in  dancing,  and  when  presently  the  alluring 
strains  of  a  waltz  came  floating  to  their  ears,  she  looked  at 
Chandler,  and  he  in  the  same  manner  looked  at  her ;  where- 
upon she  rose,  as  if  words  had  been  exchanged,  took  his  arm, 
and  they  deserted  for  the  ball-room.  Charlie  Hunt  was 
left  ensconced  in  an  intimate  nook  alone  with  Mrs.  Haw- 
thorne. 

But  he  had  hardly  a  moment  in  which  to  enjoy  the  feel- 
ing of  advantage  this  gave  him  before  his  cousin  Francesca 
came  looking  for  him.  They  were  going,  she  said.  Father 
was  sleepy,  and  mother  said  they  must  go.  If  he  wanted  a 
lift  home,  he  must  hurry  up.  Charlie  had  come  with  them, 
on  the  box  near  the  driver,  there  being  five  already  inside 
the  landau.  Gallantry  should  perhaps  have  made  him  an- 
swer that  rather  than  be  dragged  away  at  this  moment  he 
would  walk.  But  gallantry  was  dumb.  Charlie  was  not 
fond  of  walking.  It  was  a  great  convenience,  an  economy 
as  well,  being  permitted  to  make  use  of  his  aunt's  carriage. 

Having  delivered  her  message,  Francesca  had  gone  to  put 
on  her  things,  and  Charlie,  after  expressions  of  regret  over 
the  inevitable,  asked  Mrs.  Hawthorne  whither  she  would 
wish  to  be  taken  before  he  left. 

Let  him  not  bother,  she  answered;  she  could  find  her 
friends  without  help. 

They  separated.  Walking  slowly,  she  looked  for  faces  of 
acquaintances.  She  glanced  in  at  the  ball-room  door. 
They  were  dancing  still,  but  not  nearly  so  many.  She 
turned  into  the  reception-room,  whence  she  could  reenter 
the  ball-room  at  the  other  end  without  danger  of  collision, 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  57 

and  reach  that  comfortable  blue  satin  sofa,  now  standing 
empty.  There  she  would  sit  looking  on  till  Estelle  joined 
her,  when  they  would  set  about  making  their  adieux.  The 
carriage  must  have  been  waiting  for  them  ever  so  long. 

She  had  sat  a  minute,  unconsciously  smiling  to  herself, 
because  the  sensations  and  impressions  of  the  evening  were 
all  so  pleasant,  when  something  occurred  to  her  as  desirable 
to  be  done.     She  rose  to  carry  out  her  idea. 

The  dancing  had  stopped;  the  floor  was  clear  except  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  walls,  where  couples  stood  or  sat 
recovering  breath  and  coolness.  She  started  to  cross  the 
long  room.  She  did  not  skirt  it  because  the  direct  line  to 
her  destination  was  by  the  middle;  she  did  not  go  fast  be- 
cause there  was  no  occasion,  and  it  was  not  her  way.  She 
advanced  like  a  goodly  galleon  pushing  along  the  sea  with 
finely  curved  bows,  all  sails  set  to  catch  the  breeze.  Her 
mind  was  entirely  on  her  idea,  and  she  did  not  at  first  feel 
herself  to  be  conspicuous.  But  all  the  eyes  in  the  room, 
before  she  had  gone  half  her  way,  were  fastened  upon  her, 
a  natural  and  legitimate  mark.  One  might  now  without 
impertinence  have  the  satisfaction  of  a  good  look  at  the 
newly  come  American  who  had  taken  the  big  house  on  the 
Lungarno ;  the  women  might  study  the  fashion  of  her  hair 
and  dress. 

She  was  smiling  faintly,  but  fixedly;  she  smiled,  indeed, 
all  the  time,  as  if  smiles  had  been  an  indispensable  article 
of  wear  at  a  party.  The  least  of  her  smiles  brought  dimples 
into  view,  and  her  dimples  seemed  multitudinous,  though 
there  were  really  only  three  in  her  face  and  one  of  those  ir- 
regular things  called  apple-seeds.  Her  agreeably  blunted 
features  and  peachy  roundness  of  cheek  belonged  to  a  good- 
humored,  unimposing  type,  which  took  on  a  certain  nobility 


58  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

in  her  case  from  being  carried  high  on  a  strong,  round  neck 
over  a  splendid  broad  breast,  partly  bare  this  evening,  and 
seen  to  be  white  as  milk,  as  swans '-down,  as  pearl. 

If  one  had  tried  to  define  the  look  which  left  one  so  little 
doubt  as  to  her  nationality,  one  would  perhaps  have  said  it 
was  a  combination  of  fearlessness  and  accessibility.  She 
feared  not  you,  nor  should  you  fear  her ;  she  counted  on  your 
friendliness,  you  might  count  on  hers. 

She  was  a  person  simple  in  the  main.  The  colors  she  had 
selected  to  wear  accorded  with  the  rest,  showing  little  in- 
tricacy of  taste.  The  two  silks  composing  her  dress  were 
respectively  the  blue  of  a  summer  morning  and  the  pink 
of  a  rose.  From  cushioned  and  dimpled  shoulders  the 
bodice  tapered  to  as  fine  a  waist  as  a  Paris  dressmaker  had 
found  possible  to  bring  about  in  a  woman  who,  despite  a 
veritable  yearning  to  look  slender,  cared  also  for  freedom 
to  breathe,  and,  as  she  said  with  a  sigh,  guessed  she  must 
make  up  her  mind  to  be  happy  without  looking  like  a 
toothpick.  At  the  back  of  the  waist,  the  dress  leapt  sud- 
denly out  and  away  from  the  dorsal  column — every  lady's 
dress  did  that  for  a  season  or  two  at  the  time  we  are  telling 
of,  and  at  every  step  she  took  the  back  of  her  skirt  gave  a 
bob,  for  the  bustle  was  supplemented  by  three  or  four  con- 
cealed semi-circles  of  thin  steel,  reeds  we  called  them,  which 
hit  against  you  as  you  went  and  sprang  lightly  away  from 
your  heels. 

The  arrangement  of  Mrs.  Hawthorne's  hair  equalled  in 
artificiality  the  mode  of  her  dress:  the  front  locks  were 
clipped  and  twisted  into  little  curls,  the  back  locks  drawn 
to  the  top  of  the  head,  where  they  were  disposed  in  silken 
loops  and  rolls,  at  the  top  of  which,  like  a  flag  planted  on  a 
hill,  stood  an  aigrette,  a  sparkle  and  two  whiffs. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  59 

It  may  not  sound  pretty,  it  was  not,  but  the  eye  of  that 
day  had  become  used  to  it,  as  eyes  have  since  become  used 
to  fashions  no  prettier,  and  as  Mrs.  Hawthorne's  hair  was 
of  a  soft  sunny  tint  it  was  that  evening  admired  by  more 
than  one,  as  was  her  intrinsically  ugly  beautiful  gown,  which 
gave  a  little  jerky  rebound  every  time  she  placed  one  of 
those  neat  solid  satin-shod  feet  before  the  other  in  her 
progress  across  the  now  attentive  room. 

She  had  taken  off  her  long  white  gloves  to  eat  a  cake — or 
cakes;  she  was  carrying  them  loosely  swinging  from  one 
dimpled  hand. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room  self-consciousness  overtook  her. 
With  the  awakening  sense  of  eyes  upon  her,  she  looked  first 
to  one  side,  then  to  the  other.  Her  smile  broadened  while 
growing  by  just  a  tinge  sheepish ;  she  seemed  to  waver  and 
consider  turning  from  her  course  and  finishing  her  jour- 
ney close  along  the  wall,  like  a  mouse.  .  .  . 

She  finally  did  not,  nor  yet  hurried.  She  made  her 
smile  explain  to  whoever  was  looking  on  that  a  person  was 
excusable  for  making  this  sort  of  mistake,  that  it  hurt 
nobody,  that  one  need  not  and  did  not  care ;  that  she  was 
sure  they  did  not  like  her  any  less  for  it;  they  would 
not  if  they  knew  how  void  of  offense  toward  them  all  was 
her  heart;  that  having  exposed  herself  to  being  looked 
at,  she  hoped  they  liked  her  looks.  Her  dress  was  a  very 
good  dress,  her  laces  were  very  good  lace,  and  the  maid 
who  had  done  her  hair  w^as  considered  a  first-rate  hand  at 
doing  hair. 

So  she  was  carrying  it  off,  and  her  smile  was  only  a  little 
self-conscious,  only  a  shade  embarrassed,  when  from  among 
the  men  standing  near  the  library  door,  for  which  she  was 
directly  making,  there  stepped  out  one  to  meet  her,  not  un- 


60  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

like  a  slender  needle  darting  toward  a  large,  rounded  mag- 
net as  it  comes  into  due  range. 

More  sensitive  than  she,  feeling  the  situation  much  more 
uncomfortably  for  his  countrywoman  than  she  felt  it  for 
herself,  a  foreign-looking  fellow,  who  had  not  quite  for- 
gotten that  he  was  an  American,  after  a  moment's  hard 
struggle  against  his  impulse,  hastened  forward  to  shorten 
for  her  that  uncompanioned  course  across  the  floor  under 
ten  thousand  search-lights. 

*'I  'm  looking  for  somebody,"  said  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  with 
the  smile  of  a  child. 

The  voice  which  had  made  one  man  think  of  the  crimson 
heart  on  a  valentine  reminded  this  other  of  rough  velvet. 

He  showed  his  eccentric  three  front  teeth  in  a  responding 
smile  that  had  a  touch  of  the  faun,  and  asked  whimsically : 

'^WiU  I  dor' 

*  ^  Help  me  to  find  Mr.  Foss,  and  you  '11  do  perfectly, ' ' 
she  said  merrily.  ' '  I  have  n  't  seen  him  more  than  just  to 
shake  hands  this  whole  evening,  and  I  do  want  to  have  a  lit- 
tle talk  before  I  go. " 

^  ^  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  we  shall  find  him  in  the  library. ' ' 
He  offered  his  arm. 

*'I  may  have  appeared  to  be  doing  something  else,  Mrs. 
Hawthorne,  but  I  have  really  been  looking  for  you  the  last 
hour, ' '  said  the  consul  when  he  had  been  found.  ' '  I  wanted 
to  have  a  little  talk.     How  are  you  enjoying  Florence?" 

*^0h,  we  're  having  an  elegant  time,  thanks  to  that  dear 
wife  of  yours  and  that  dear  girl,  Leslie.  I  don't  know  what 
we  should  have  done  without  them  and  you. ' ' 

"But  the  city  itself,  Florence,  doesn't  it  enchant  you?" 

^'■W'e — ell,  yes.  N-n-n-no.  Yes  and  no.  That  's  it. 
You  want  me  to  tell  the  truth,  don't  you ?     Some  of  it  does. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  61 

and  some  of  it  doesn't.  Some  of  it,  I  guess,  will  take  me 
a  long  time  to  get  used  to.  It  's  terribly  different  from 
what  we  expected — I,  in  particular.  You  see,  I  came  here 
because  an  old  friend  used  to  talk  so  much  about  it.  Flor- 
ence the  Fair !  The  City  of  Lilies !  He  said  Italy  was  the 
most  beautiful  country  in  the  world,  and  Florence  the  most 
beautiful  city  in  Italy.  So  my  expectations  were  way  up. 
— Oh,  I  don't  know;  it  's  hard  to  tell.  I  don't  exactly  re- 
member now  what  I  did  expect.  I  guess  my  picture  of  it 
was  something  like  the  New  Jerusalem  on  an  Easter  day. 
But  I  shall  get  used  to  this,  like  to  the  taste  of  olives.  It 
must  be  all  right,  for  the  friend  I  was  speaking  of  had  the 
finest  mind  I  've  ever  known.  I  'm  green  as  turnip-tops, 
of  course,  but  I  shall  get  educated  up  to  it,  I  suppose.  Give 
me  time/' 

"Mrs.  Hawthorne,  hear  me  prophesy,"  said  Mr.  Foss. 
"In  six  months  you  will  love  it  all.  It  's  the  fate  of  ua 
who  come  here  from  new  countries.  It  will  steal  in  upon 
you,  grow  upon  you,  beset  and  besot  you,  till  you  like  no 
other  place  in  the  world  so  well. ' ' 

"Will  it?  Well,  if  you  say  so.  The  Judge — the  friend 
I  was  speaking  of, — said  so  much  of  the  same  kind  that  the 
minute  I  thought  of  coming  to  Europe,  right  after  I  'd  said, 
'I  11  go  to  Paris,'  I  said  to  myself,  'I  '11  go  to  Florence.'  " 

"Your  friend  was  a  judge  of  places." 

"It  wasn't  he  alone  influenced  me.  He  was  sick  a  long 
time,  and  I  used  to  read  aloud  to  him,  and  one  spell,  when 
his  mind  for  some  reason  or  other  was  running  on  Italy, 
every  book  he  chose  had  the  scene  laid  here.  There  were 
whole  pages  of  description,  and  anything  so  lovely,  so 
luscious,  as  the  places  and  people  described  I  never  did 
dream.     I  didn't  understand  more  than  a  quarter,  but  I 


62  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

swallowed  it  all  and  gloated.  The  woman  who  wrote  those 
books  certainly  did  have  an  imagination.  O  Antonia,  let 
me  meet  you  and  have  a  good  look  at  you  so  I  can  tell  a — ^hm, 
the  owner  of  an  imagination  when  I  see  one  again ! ' ' 

''Antonia,  did  you  say?''     The  consul  smiled. 

''That  was  the  writer's  name.  You  know  the  books  I 
mean  ? ' ' 

"I  have  read  a  work  or  two  of  Antonia 's,  yes.  She  lives 
near  Florence,  you  know,  on  another  of  these  little  hills.*' 

"Oh,  does  she!" 

"Her  name  is  Mrs.  Grangeon.  She  is  an  Englishwoman, 
with  an  extraordinary  sense  of,  and  feeling  for,  Italy.  She 
is,  at  her  best,  a  poet ;  at  her  worst,  slightly  deficient,  per- 
haps, in  humor.  But  her  passion  for  Italy  is  genuine,  and 
I  have  no  doubt  she  sees  it  as  glowing  as  the  pictures  she 
makes  of  it." 

"Her  books  are  'grand,  John' !  If  I  never  had  come  here, 
I  never  should  have  appreciated  them  or  her — making  up 
that  wonderful  world,  all  pomegranates  and  jasmin-stars, 
and  curls  like  clustering  blue-black  grapes,  and  staturesque 
limbs,  out  of  the  back  of  her  head.  Yes,  and  the  golden 
dust  of  centuries,  and  time's  mellow  caressing  touch — oh,  I 
wish  I  could  remember  it  all ! " 

"Mrs.  Hawthorne,  we  must  take  you  in  hand.  Be  it  ours 
to  initiate  you.     Come,  what  have  you  been  to  see?" 

"Treasures  of  art?  We  have  n't  had  time  yet.  We've 
been  getting  a  house  fit  to  live  in.  When  you  asked  me  how 
I  liked  Florence,  I  ought  to  have  begun  by  that  end.  I  love 
my  house,  Mr.  Foss.  I  love  my  garden.  I  love  the  Lun- 
garno.  And  the  Casheeny.  And  Boboly.  And  the  drive 
up  here.  And  the  stores !  I  positively  dote  on  those  little 
bits  of  stores  on  the  jewelers'  bridge." 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  63 

**Well,  well,  that  's  quite  enough  to  begin  with." 

"Now  that  we  're  going  to  have  some  time  to  spare,  we 
mean  to  go  sight-seeing  like  other  folks." 

"How  I  wish,  dear  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  that  I  were  not  such 
a  busy  man!  But" — Mr.  Foss  had  a  look  of  bright  inspi- 
ration— "should  I  on  that  account  be  dejected?  Here  is 
Mr.  Fane—" 

He  turned  to  Gerald,  who,  after  bringing  up  Mrs.  Haw- 
thorne, had  stood  near,  a  silent  third,  waiting  to  act  fur- 
ther as  her  escort  by  and  by.  Meanwhile  he  had  been  listen- 
ing with  a  varied  assortment  of  feelings  and  a  boundless 
fatigue  of  spirit. 

* '  Mr.  Fane, ' '  said  the  consul,  ' '  who  is  not  nearly  so  busy 
a  man  as  I,  and  is  the  most  sympathetic,  well-informed 
cicerone  you  could  find.  When  we  wish  to  be  sure  our 
visiting  friends  shall  see  Florence  under  the  best  possible 
circumstances,  we  turn  them  over  to  Mr.  Fane." 

Gerald 's  face  struggled  into  a  sourish  smile,  and  he  bowed 
ironical  thanks  for  the  compliment.  Lifting  his  head,  he 
shot  a  glance  of  reproachful  interrogation  at  the  consul. 
Was  his  friend  doing  this  humorously,  to  tease  him,  or  was 
the  man  simply  not  thinking? 

The  consul  looked  innocent  of  any  sly  intention ;  he  was 
all  of  a  jocund  smile ;  the  consul,  who  should  have  known 
better,  wore  the  air  of  doing  him  a  pleasure  and  her  a  pleas- 
ure and  a  pleasure  to  himself ;  the  air  of  thinking  that  any 
normally  constituted  young  man  would  be  grateful  for  such 
a  chance. 

"I  shall  be  most  happy,"  said  Gerald,  with  irreproach- 
able and  misleading  politeness. 

Mrs.  Hawthorne  turned  to  him  readily. 

"Any  time  you  say.     Let  me  tell  you  where  we  live." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  room  in  which  Mrs.  Hawthorne  went  to  bed  an 
hour  or  two  after  taking  leave  of  the  dwindling 
company  at  Villa  Foss  was  large  and  luxurious. 
Its  windows  were  enormous,  arched  at  the  top  and  reaching 
the  floor.  A  wrought-iron  railing  outside  made  them  safe. 
In  the  angle  of  the  wall  between  two  of  them — it  was  a 
corner  room — ^stood  a  mirror  nearly  the  size  of  the  win- 
dows, in  a  broad  frame  of  carved  and  gilt  wood,  resting  on 
a  marble  shelf  that  supported  besides  two  alabaster  vases 
holding  bunches  of  roses. 

In  the  corner  opposite  to  the  mirror  and  placed  ''catty- 
corner,'^  as  the  occupier  worded  it,  stood  the  stateliest  of 
beds,  upholstered  and  draped  in  heavy  watered  silk  of  a 
dull,  even  dingy,  yellow.  Its  hangings  were  gathered  at 
the  top  into  the  hollow  of  a  great  gold  coronet,  whence  they 
spread  and  fell  in  folds  that  were  looped  back  with  silk 
cords.  The  walls  were  covered  by  that  same  texture  of 
dull  gold,  held  in  place  by  tarnished  gilt  moldings. 

Mrs.  Hawthorne  had  wanted  all  this  dusty  and  faded 
splendor  removed, — it  seemed  to  her  the  possible  lurking- 
place  of  mice  or  worse, — ^but  the  agent  would  not  hear  of  it. 
The  noble  landlord  was  not  really  eager  to  let. 

So  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  to  brighten  the  room  in  spite  of  it, 
for  she  wished  to  keep  it  for  her  own,  having  taken  a  fancy 
to  the  fresco  overhead, — that  fascinating  chariot  driven 

64 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  65 

among  clouds  by  a  radiant  youth  surrounded  by  smiling, 
flower-scattering  maidens, — Mrs.  Hawthorne  to  ''gay  up" 
the  room,  as  she  said,  had  hung  windows  and  doors  with 
draperies  of  her  favorite  corn-flower  blue,  and  covered  the 
chairs  with  the  same.  On  the  floor  she  had  stretched  a 
pearl-gray  carpet  all  aglow  with  wreaths  of  roses  tied  with 
ribbons  of  blue;  and  over  the  carpet — at  the  bed-side,  be- 
fore the  dressing-table,  in  front  of  the  fireplace — laid  down 
white  bear-skins. 

To  cover  further  the  yellow  silk,  she  had  hung  in  one 
panel  of  it  a  painting  of  the  "Madonna  della  Seggiola, "  in 
another.  Carlo  Dolci's  ''Angel  of  the  Annunciation,"  and 
in  another.  Carlo  Dolci's  Magdalen  clasping  the  box  of 
ointment — all  works  of  art  bought  in  Via  dei  Fossi,  framed 
in  great  gilt-wood  frames,  like  the  mirror. 

The  lace  curtains  under  the  cornflower  blue  brocade  were 
like  Brussels  wedding  veils  seen  through  a  magnifying  glass. 

Yes,  the  room  had  been  made  to  look  bright.  It  had 
lamps  of  cream-colored  biscuit,  painted  with  roses  and 
crowned  with  pink  shades;  it  had  polished  brass  fire-irons. 
But  the  point  of  supreme  brightness  was  the  dressing-table, 
where  glittered  in  orderly  display  Mrs.  Hawthorne 's  Amer- 
ican toilet  silver,  mirror,  trays,  brushes,  boxes,  bottles — 
solid,  shining,  richly  embossed. 

There  was  just  one  thing  in  all  the  room  that  looked  poor, 
workaday.  It  was  on  the  small  table  at  the  head  of  the 
bed,  beside  the  candle-stick  and  match-safe,  a  black  book, 
the  commonest  kind  of  Bible,  such  a  Bible  as  is  dispensed 
by  those  who  have  to  furnish  the  sacred  writings  in  large 
numbers — Sunday  schools,  for  instance. 

It  was  in  fact  a  Sunday-school  prize  that  now  lay  on  the 
night-stand,  in  what  the  sober  volume  presented  to  a  pious 


66  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

little  girl  must  have  thought  strange  company.  Cover  to 
cover  with  it,  cheek  by  jowl,  lay  a  book  on  etiquette. 

It  was  for  the  Bible,  however,  that  Mrs.  Hawthorne 
reached  after  she  had  got  into  bed.  She  found  her  place. 
She  read  in  it  every  night  before  sleeping,  to  keep  a  prom- 
ise made  long  ago,  and  avoid  the  reproaches  of  a  person 
gone  from  this  earth,  but  who  still,  she  never  questioned, 
could  be  pleased  or  displeased  with  her  actions. 

She  did  not  always  try  to  understand  or  follow;  when 
she  was  sleepy  she  read  merely  with  her  eyes.  To-night 
her  mind  was  too  full  of  personal  things  to  permit  of  strict 
attention  to  the  text.  As  she  enumerated  the  wonders  of 
the  House  that  Solomon  built  for  the  Lord,  there  formed 
no  picture  of  it  in  her  mind. 

' '  I  wonder  what  knops  are, '  ^  she  said  to  herself  drowsily. 
**I  must  remember  to  ask  Hattie.'* 

There  was  a  stir.  Both  doors  of  her  room  were  open; 
the  little  unobtrusive  one  into  the  dressing-room  for  air, — 
the  window  there  stood  wide  open  through  the  night, — the 
large  one  into  the  sitting-room  so  as  to  leave  a  free  road 
to  Miss  Madison 's  room  beyond.  Through  this  now  slipped 
a  slender  form  in  a  soft,  fur-bordered  wrapper,  and  with 
front  locks  done  up  in  curling-kids. 

''You  in  bed?" 

''Yes;  I  'm  just  reading  my  chapter." 

' '  Livvy  gone  ? ' ' 

Liwy,  or  Miss  Deliverance  Jones,  was  the  maid  they  had 
brought  from  America,  a  New  York  negress  of  the  most 
faintly  colored  complexion,  with  hair  mysteriously  blond. 
Her  head  was  egg-shaped,  her  nose  slightly  flat,  her  lip 
voluptuous,  her  brown-black  eye  sad  as  a  home-sick  mon- 
key's; but  she  could  wind  a  chocolate  veil  about  her  face 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  67 

and  stylish  hat,  and  walk  forth  happy  in  the  fancy  that 
she  passed  for  white.  She  was  an  accomplished  dress- 
maker and  hair-dresser ;  she  moreover  had  spent  some  time 
in  the  service  of  a  beauty-doctor.  The  ladies  had  secured 
her  just  before  sailing,  and  liked  her,  but  did  not  talk 
freely  when  she  was  present. 

' '  Yes,  she  's  gone. ' ' 

"  I  'm  not  a  bit  sleepy,  are  you  ?  I  'm  too  excited.  Let  's 
talk." 

She  climbed  on  to  her  friend's  bed,  gathered  her  knees 
to  her  chin,  and  hugged  them,  with  the  effect  of  hugging 
to  herself  a  great  happiness. 

Mrs.  Hawthorne  closed  her  Bible  and  put  it  aside.  The 
single  candle  by  which  she  had  been  reading  showed  the 
shining  mirthfulness  of  the  eyes  with  which  the  two  re- 
garded each  other. 

^'Wasn't  it  fun?" 

''Oh,  wasn't  it!" 

They  spoke  softly,  whether  because  the  suggestion  of  the 
late  hour  was  upon  them,  or  they  thought,  without  think- 
ing, that  Livvy  might  still  be  near.  They  whispered 
like  school-girls  who  have  come  together  in  forbidden 
fun. 

' '  I  never  did  have  such  a  good  time. ' ' 

' '  Nor  I,  neither.     Oh,  Hat,  is  n  H  it  f un  ! " 

''Isn't  it,  iw^iV 

"See  here,  Hat,  you  've  got  to  teach  me  to  dance.  I  was 
almost  crazy  this  evening,  I  wanted  so  to  be  dancing  with 
the  rest.     Where  d '  you  learn  ? ' ' 

**I  went  to  dancing-school,  my  dear." 

**No!     Did  you?" 

**Yes,  I  did;  all  one  winter.     What  are  you  thinking 


68  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

about?  I  've  been  to  parties  in  my  life.  Not  many,  but 
I  've  been.     There  was  the  Home  Club  party — " 

''Yes,  of  course.  I  remember  how  I  teased  once  to  go  to 
the  Home  Club  party;  but  ma  wouldn't  let  me.  I  hadn't 
anything  to  put  on,  anyhow.  But  I  'd  have  gone  in  my 
shirt  if  they  'd  let  me.  The  nearest  to  a  real  party  I  'd 
been  to  before  to-night  was  a  clam-bake.  I  don't  count 
church  sociables.  Out  West  there  used  to  be  celebrations  in 
a  sort  of  bar-room  place,  but  even  I  could  n  't  stand  those. 
To  think  I  've  always  yearned  so  to  have  a  good  time,  and 
now  I  'm  having  it !  Oh,  Hat,  was  n  't  it  lovely !  That  's 
a  mighty  nice  house  of  the  Fosses.  How  good  it  looked, 
all  fixed  up !  The  flowers  and  candles,  one  room  opening 
into  the  other,  everything  just  right.  Hat,  Mrs.  Foss  is 
the  finest  woman  I  ever  knew,  and  in  my  opinion  makes  the 
most  elegant  appearance.  She  's  the  one  I  'd  choose  to  be 
like  if  I  could.  Just  watch  me  copy-cat  her.  You  '11  see. 
'My  dear  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  pray  don't  speak  of  the  trou- 
ble !  It  's  been  nothing  but  a  pleasure.  Be  sure  you  call 
upon  us  whenever  we  can  be  of  the  smallest  service. '  ' ' 

' '  You  Ve  caught  her,  Nell,  you  silly  thing !  Down  to  the 
ground. '  * 

"I  'm  going  to  pattern  after  her  till  it  comes  natural. 
How  sweet  they  all  are !  How  kind  they  've  been  ! ' '  Mrs. 
Hawthorne  grew  dreamy. 

"Your  dress,  Nell,  was  a  perfect  success,"  the  other  ran 
on — ' '  perfect.  How  did  you  think  mine  looked  ?  I  '11  tell 
you  a  compliment  I  got  for  you,  if  you  '11  tell  me  one  you 
got  for  me.  If  not,  I  '11  save  it  up  in  my  secret  breast  till 
you  're  ready  to  make  a  trade. ' ' 

"To  think,"  said  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  still  engrossed  by  her 
dream  of  absent  and  bygone  things,  "that  we  're  the  same 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  69 

little  girls — and  one  of  them  barefoot! — who  used  to  play 
house  together  on  a  sand-heap  of  old  Cape  Cod  and  pin 
on  any  old  rag  that  would  tail  along  the  ground  and  play 
ladies!     'My  dear  Mrs.  Madison,  how  do  you  doT  *' 

**  'My  dear  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  my  toes  are  just  as  sore  as 
they  can  be ! '  ' ' 

"  'That  comes,  my  dear  Mrs.  Madison,  of  you  dancing 
like  a  crazy  woman  from  ten  o  'clock  till  one,  in  tight  shoes ! ' 
— Mrs.  Hawthorne!  Mrs.  Madison!  Aurora!  Estelle ! 
To  think,  after  all  these  years,  we  should  be  playing  our 
old  play  that  we  played  at  Wellfleet  and  East  Boston,  only 
playing  it  with  real  things,  in  Paris  and  Florence ! ' ' 

"Nell,  I  'm  so  afraid  of  forgetting  and  calling  you  Nell 
that  every  time  I  catch  myself  near  doing  it  I  can  feel  the 
cold  sweat  break  out  on  my  brow." 

"What  would  it"  matter?  We  aren't  impostors,  Hat. 
We  're  just  having  fun,  and  don't  want  our  real  names  to 
queer  it.  If  they  should  slip  out  when  we  are  n  't  think- 
ing, they  'd  simply  sound  like  nicknames  we  've  got  for 
each  other.  But  they  won't  slip  out.  I  'm  too  fond  of 
calling  you  Estelle.  Don't  you  love  to  call  me  Aurora? 
Hat,  how  did  I  behave,  far  as  you  could  see  ? " 

"Nell,  if  I  hadn't  known  you,  and  had  just  been  seeing 
you  for  the  first  time,  I  should  have  said  to  myself :  '  What 
a  fine,  good-looking,  beautifully  dressed,  refined,  and  lady- 
like woman  that  is!  Wish  t'  I  might  make  her  acquaint- 
ance.' And  what  would  you  have  said,  if  you  'd  seen  me, 
never  having  met  me  before?" 

"I  should  have  said :  'What  a  bright,  smart,  intelligent, 
and  rarely  beautiful  girl !  So  well  dressed,  too,  and  slen- 
der as  a  worm !  A  queen  of  society.  I  do  like  her  looks ! 
She  's  the  spittin'  image  of  my  little  friend  Hattie  Carver, 


70  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

the  schoolmarm  in  East  Boston,  that  I  used  to  know ! '  Oh, 
Hat,  the  queerest  thing !  What  do  you  suppose  I  saw  this 
evening  at  that  lovely  house  full  of  lovely  people?  I  was 
in  the  library  learning  to  dance.  And  I  looked  up  and 
there  was  what  I  took  to  be  a  young  man  smoking  a  ciga- 
rette. Next  thing,  I  saw  that  his  dress  was  low-necked 
almost  down  to  the  waist.  Hat,  it  was  a  woman  smoking ! 
a  woman  with  her  hair  cut  short.  I  never  saw  anything 
like  it,  except  an  old  Irishwoman  once,  with  her  pipe." 

"Seems  to  me  I  've  heard  of  ladies  in  Europe  doing  it, 
and  it  being  considered  all  right.  I  have  heard  that  some 
do  it  in  New  York,  but  I  guess  they  're  careful  not  to  be 
seen. ' ' 

"Well,  it  does  seem  a  queer  thing  to  do! —  Go  ahead, 
Hat ;  what  was  the  compliment  ? ' ' 

"Sure,  now,  you  've  got  one  for  me?" 

"Sure." 

' '  It  was  What  's-his-name,  the  English  fellow  we  see  every 
time  we  go  in  to  Cook's — Mr.  Dysart.  Leslie  says  he  comes 
of  a  very  good  family.  He  said  to  me,  'How  very  charm- 
ing Mrs.  Hawthorne  is  looking  this  evening ! '  " 

"Hattie,  that  man  's  a  humbug,  that  man  's  leading  a 
double  life.  He  said  to  me,  'How  very  charming  Miss 
Madison  is  looking  this  evening!'     He  did." 

"Go  'way!     You  're  making  it  up  to  save  trouble." 

"No,  I  ain't!  Stop,  Hattie!  I  know!  I  am  not.  Con- 
fusion upon  it!  You  've  made  me  so  nervous  when  I  talk 
that  I  can't  say  ain't  without  jumping  as  if  I  'd  sat  on  a 
pin!" 

"Nell  Goodwin,  look  me  square  in  the  eye.  How  many 
times  did  you  say  ain't  at  the  party  this  evening?" 

' '  Not  once ;  I  swear  it.    I  was  looking  out  every  minute. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  71 

*I  am  not/  I  said;  'We  are  not,'  I  said;  'He  doesn't,'  I 
said ;  *  He  is  n  't, '  I  said.  There !  Between  you  'n '  I,  Hat, 
it  's  a  dreadful  nuisance,  keeping  my  mind  on  the  way  I 
talk.  I  hope  I  shall  come  in  time  to  talking  lofty  without 
thinking  about  it.  Why  do  I  have  to,  Hat,  after  all  ?  I  've 
lived  among  educated  people.  Wasn't  the  Judge  highly 
educated?  And  nobody  ever  found  fault  with  my  way  of 
talking.  My  folks  all  had  been  to  school  and  read  books. 
And  did  n't  I  go  to  school  till  I  was  fourteen  ?  And  did  n't 
I  graduate  from  the  grammar  school  with  the  rest? 
What  's  the  matter  with  my  natural  way  of  talking  ? ' ' 

'*It  's  all  right  at  home,  Nell,  but  it  's  different  over 
here.  They  're  a  different  kind  of  people  we  're  thrown 
with.'' 

**This  pernickety  way  of  talking  never  sounds  cozy  or 
friendly  one  bit.  We  're  as  good  as  anybody,  of  course, 
but  when  I  say  '  I  am  not,  he  does  not, '  I  always  feel  as  if  I 
were  setting  up  to  be  better  than  the  rest ! —  Oh,  it  is  n't, 
is  it  ?  Oh,  do  you  say  so  ?  *  Between  you  and  I '  is  n  't  cor- 
rect ?  But  I  thought  you  told  me.  ...  To  Jericho,  Hattie ! 
How  's  a  feller  ever  going  to  get  to  know  ? ' ' 

**  Listen,  Nell,  while  I  go  over  it  again.  When  you 
say—" 

**Ah,  no!  Not  at  this  time  of  night,  Estelle!  Let  me 
live  in  ignorance  till  morning!  You  know  all  those  sorts 
of  things,  my  dear  Estelle,  because  you  're  paid  by  the 
government  to  know  them.  I  don't;  but  I  know  lots  and 
lots  of  things  that  are  a  sight  funnier. ' ' 

She  grabbed  one  of  the  pillows  and  flung  it  at  her  friend, 
who  flung  it  back  at  her;  and  the  simple  creatures  laughed. 

Aurora  re-tied  in  a  bow  the  blue  ribbon  that  closed  the 
collar  of  her  nightgown,  and  settled  back  again,  with  her 


72  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

arms  out  on  the  white  satin  quilt,  flowered  with  roses  and 
lined  with  blue.  The  two  braids  of  her  fair  hair  lay,  one 
on  each  side,  down  her  big,  frank,  undisguised  bosom. 

* '  You  heaping  dish  of  vanilla  ice-cream ! ' '  said  Hattie. 

*'You  stick  of  rhubarb!"  said  Nell.  ''Stop,  Hat!  Be- 
have !  Do  you  suppose  all  the  people  we  've  invited  to 
come  and  see  us  will  come?" 

''Doctor  Chandler  will  come.  And  the  Hunt  girls  will 
come.     And  Madame  Bentivoglio  I  guess  will  come." 

"Yes,  and  the  Satterlees  I  'm  sure  will  come.  And  Mrs. 
Seymour  and  her  daughter  that  I  said  I  'd  help  with  the 
church  fair.  And  the  minister;  what  was  it?  Spottis- 
wood." 

"And  won't  the  Mr.  Hunt  come  that  you  seemed  to  be 
having  such  a  good  time  with?" 

"Yes,  he  '11  come.  He  '11  come  to-morrow,  I  shouldn't 
wonder.  Then  that  thinnish  fellow  with  the  hair  like  a 
hearth-brush — did  you  meet  him  ?  Mr.  Fane,  a  great  friend 
of  the  Fosses.  He  's  coming  to  take  us  sight-seeing. ' '  She 
yawned  a  wide,  audible  yawn.  "I  only  hope  there  '11  be 
some  fun  in  it.     Confound  you.  Hat,  go  to  bed ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  V 

AFTER  the  Fosses  had  helped  the  lessees  of  the 
Haughty  Hermitage  to  make  it  habitable;  found 
for  them  a  coachman  who  had  a  little  French  and, 
when  told  what  they  desired  to  buy,  would  take  them 
to  the  proper  shops;  provided  them  with  a  butler  to 
the  same  extent  a  linguist,  through  whom  Estelle,  who  in 
Paris  had  ambitiously  studied  a  manual  of  conversation, 
could  give  her  orders,  they  not  unnaturally  became  less 
generous  of  their  company. 

But  they  were  not  permitted  to  make  the  intervals  long 
between  visits.  The  coachman  wise  in  French  was  per- 
petually driving  his  spanking  pair  to  their  gates,  deliver- 
ing a  message,  and  waiting  to  take  them  down  for  lunch  or 
dinner  with  their  joyfully  welcoming  and  grateful  friends. 
It  was  not  at  all  unpleasant.  It  was  not  prized  preciously, 
— there  was  too  much  of  it  and  too  urgently  lavished, — but 
the  lavishers  were  loved  for  it  by  two  women  neither  dry- 
hearted  nor  world-hardened.  Leslie  fell  into  the  way,  when 
she  was  in  town  and  had  time,  of  running  in  to  Aurora's, 
where  it  would  be  cheerful  and  she  looked  for  a  laugh. 

Leslie,  having  reached,  as  she  considered,  years  of  dis- 
cretion, thought  fit  to  disregard  the  Florentine  rule  that 
young  unmarried  women  must  not  walk  in  the  streets  un- 
attended. She  had  balanced  the  two  inconveniences:  that 
of  staying  at  home  unless  some  one  could  go  out  with  her, 

73 


74f  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

and  that  of  being  spoken  to  in  the  street,  and  decided  that 
it  was  less  unpleasant  to  hear  a  strange  young  man  murmur 
as  she  passed, ' '  Angel  of  paradise ! "  or  "  Beautiful  eyes ! ' ' — 
no  grosser  insult  had  ever  been  offered  her, — than  to  be 
bothered  by  a  servant  at  her  heels.  The  fact  that  she  looked 
American  and  was  understood  to  be  following  the  custom  of 
her  own  country  secured  her  against  any  real  misinterpreta- 
tion. 

It  was  chilly,  Novemberish,  and  within  the  doors  of  Flor- 
entine domiciles  rather  colder,  for  some  reason,  than  in  the 
open  air.  The  Fosses  kept  their  house  at  a  more  human 
temperature  than  most  people,  but  yet  after  years  of  Italy 
did  not  heat  very  thoroughly:  one  drops  into  the  way  of 
doing  as  others  do,  and  grows  accustomed  to  putting  up 
with  cold  in  winter.  Leslie  often  expressed  the  opinion  that 
in  America  people  really  exaggerate  in  the  matter  of  heating 
their  houses.  Nevertheless,  just  for  the  joy  of  the  eyes  and, 
through  the  eyes,  of  the  depressed  spirit,  she  was  glad  to-day 
of  the  big  fire  dancing  and  crackling  in  Aurora's  chimney- 
place. 

The  up-stairs  sitting-room,  where  the  ladies  generally  sat, 
might  look  rather  like  a  day  nursery;  yet  after  one  had 
accepted  it,  with  its  chintz  of  big  red  flowers  and  green 
foliage,  its  rich  strawberry  rug  and  new  gold  picture - 
frames,  it  did  seem  to  brighten  one's  mood.  How  think 
grayly  amid  that  dazzle  and  glow  any  more  than  feel  cold 
before  that  fire  ? 

Leslie  held  her  hands  to  the  blaze,  and  with  an  amiable 
display  of  interest  inquired  of  their  affairs,  the  progress 
made  in  ' '  getting  settled. ' '  There  was  still  a  good  deal  to 
do  of  a  minor  sort. 

Accounts  were  given  her  in  a  merry  duet ;  purchases  were 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  75 

shown;  she  was  told  all  that  had  happened  since  they  last 
saw  her,  who  had  called,  whom  they  had  been  to  see. 

Casting  about  in  her  mind  for  further  things  to  com- 
municate, Aurora  was  reminded  of  a  small  grievance. 

' '  I  thought  your  friend  Mr.  Fane  was  going  to  come  and 
take  us  sight-seeing, ' '  she  said. 

' '  Was  it  so  arranged  ? ' ' 

*'So  I  supposed." 

''And  he  hasn't  been?" 

'  *  Hide  nor  hair  of  him  have  we  seen. ' ' 

' '  I  meant,  has  n  't  he  perhaps  called  while  you  were  out  ? ' ' 

''He  hasn't." 

"Strange.  It  's  not  like  him  to  be  rude.  But,  then,  he  's 
not  like  himself  these  days.     You  must  excuse  him. ' ' 

"What  's  the  matter  with  him?     Isn't  he  well?" 

"He  's  not  ill  in  the  usual  sense.  If  he  were,  we  should 
make  him  have  a  doctor  and  hope  to  see  him  cured.  It  's 
worse  than  an  illness.     He  is  blue — chronically  blue." 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  he  has  reasons.  But  the  same  reasons,  of  course, 
would  not  have  made  a  person  of  a  different  temperament 
change  as  he  has  changed. ' ' 

"I  don't  suppose  you  want  to  tell  us  what  the  reasons 
are?"    Very  tentatively  this  was  said. 

"Why  .  .  .  ordinarily  one  would  not  feel  free  to  do  so, 
but  you  are  sure  to  hear  about  it  before  you  have  been  here 
long.  In  Florence,  you  know,  everybody  knows  everything 
about  everybody  else.  Not  always  the  truth,  but  in  any  case 
an  interesting  version.  Oh,  it  behooves  one  to  be  careful  in 
Florence  if  one  does  n't  wish  one's  affairs  known  and  talked 
about.  But  in  the  case  of  Gerald  there  was  nothing  secret. 
Everybody  knows  him,  everybody  knew  when  he  was  en- 


76  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

gaged  to  Violet  Van  Zandt,  everybody  knows  that  she  mar- 
ried some  one  else. ' ' 

''Oh,  the  poor  boy!" 

''It  's  very  simple,  you  see,  commonplace  as  possible. 
But  it  's  like  the  old  story  of  the  poem :  an  old  story,  yet  for- 
ever new.  And  the  one  to  whom  it  happens  has  his  heart 
broken,  one  way  or  the  other. ' ' 

"And  she  married  some  one  else?'^ 

Both  Aurora  and  Estelle  were  craning  toward  the 
speaker  in  a  curiosity  full  of  sympathy. 

Leslie  was  used  to  seeing  them  hang  on  her  lips.  "I  do 
love  to  hear  you  talk ! ' '  Aurora  candidly  said.  ' '  It  does  n  't 
make  any  difference  whether  I  know  what  you  're  talking 
about,  it  fascinates  me,  the  way  you  say  things ! ' '  And  the 
compliment  disposed  Leslie  to  talk  to  them  no  otherwise 
than  she  talked  with  Lady  Linbrook  or  Countess  Costetti, 
leaving  them  to  grasp  or  not  her  allusions  and  fine  shades. 
She  was  by  a  number  of  years  the  youngest  of  the  three 
drawn  up  to  the  fire;  yet  some  advantage  of  fluency,  col- 
lectedness,  habit  of  good  society — a  neat  effect  altogether 
of  authority,  made  her  seem  in  a  way  the  oldest. 

"Violet,"  she  began,  like  a  grown  person  willing  to 
indulge  children  with  a  story,  ' '  is  Madame  Balm  de  Breze  's 
sister.  You  saw  IMadame  de  Breze  that  Friday  evening  at 
our  house.  Violet  is  very  like  her,  only  much  younger  and 
a  blonde.  Amabel  is — let  us  call  things  by  their  names  in 
the  seclusion  of  this  snug  fireside — Amabel  is  scrawny; 
Violet  was  ethereal.  Amabel  is  sharp-featured;  Violet's 
face  was  delicate  and  clear-cut.  I  say  was,  because  she  has 
grown  much  stouter.  We  have  known  them  since  they  first 
came  to  Florence,  and  have  been  friends  without  being  pas- 
sionately attached.    They  are  Americans,  but  had  lived  in 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  77 

Paris  since  Violet  was  a  baby.  They  came  here,  orphans, 
because  it  is  cheaper.  They  used  to  live  on  the  top  floor  of 
a  stony  old  palace  in  Via  de*  Servi,  where  they  painted  fans 
on  silk,  sending  them  to  a  firm  in  Paris.  Amabel 
did  them  exquisitely:  shepherds  and  shepherdesses,  cor- 
ners of  old  gardens,  Cupids — Watteau  effects,  veritable 
miniature  work.  The  little  sister  was  beginning  to 
do  them  well,  too;  she  painted  only  flowers.  Amabel  had 
no  objection  to  Violet  marrying  Gerald.  He  was  as  far 
as  possible  from  being  a  good  match,  but  in  those  days 
both  Amabel  and  Violet  seemed  to  live  in  an  atmos- 
phere that  excluded  the  consideration  of  things  from  a 
vulgar  material  point  of  view.  Violet  and  Gerald  were 
alike  in  that,  and  so  very  much  alike  in  their  superfine 
tastes  and  ways  of  thinking.  Nous  autres  who  live  upon 
this  earth  wondered  how  they  would  keep  the  pot  boiling  in 
case  of  'that  not  remote  contingent,  la  famille.'  Gerald 
has  an  income  simply  tiny.  You  would  hardly  believe  how 
small.  We  supposed  that  now  he  would  paint  a  little  more 
than  he  ever  has  done  with  the  idea  of  pleasing  the  general 
public  and  securing  patronage.  They  were  so  much  in  love, 
anyhow,  and  made  such  an  interesting  pair,  that  one's  old 
romantic  feelings  were  gratified  by  seeing  them  together. 
They  were  to  wait  until  she  was  twenty-one,  when  a  crumb 
of  money  in  trust  for  her  would  fall  due.  Then  Amabel 
surprises  us  all  by  marrying  De  Breze.  Violet  of  course 
lives  with  them,  and  with  them  goes  to  Paris.  And  in  Paris 
she  becomes  Madame  Pfaffenheim.     Tout  honnement ! ' * 

* '  Oh,  the  wretch,  the  bad-hearted  minx ! ' ' 

*'No,''  said  Leslie,  reflectively.  She  turned  from  the 
warmth  of  the  fire  and  let  her  eyes  rest  on  the  gray  sky 
seen  in  wide  patches  through  the  three  great  windows, 


fSO  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

''I  should  think  he  would  just  despise  her,  and  shake  it 
off,  and  forget  her  as  she  deserves. ' ' 

*' Your  simple  device,  dear  Aurora,  is  the  one  he  adopted. 
But  to  have  an  empty  hollow  where  your  beautiful  hoard  of 
pure  gold  was  stored  is  a  thing  it  takes  time  to  grow  used 
to.  He  is  not  an  unhappy  lover  now,  certainly;  but  he  is 
a  man  who  has  been  robbed,  and  he  has  fallen  into  the 
habit  of  low  spirits.  It  is  a  thousand  pities  his  poor 
mother  and  sister  could  not  have  been  spared  to  make  a 
home  for  him.  Being  too  much  alone  is  bad  for  any  one. 
He  shuts  himself  in  with  his  blues,  and  they  are  growing 
more  and  more  confirmed.  Love  is  a  curious  thing." 
Leslie  said  the  latter  separately  and  after  a  pause,  as  if 
from  a  particular  case  she  had  been  led  to  reviewing  the 
whole  subject.  "It  complicates  life  so,"  she  added,  and 
rose  to  go. 

They  teased  her  to  remain  and  lunch  with  them.  But 
Leslie  was  suddenly  more  tired  at  the  contemplation  of  life 
than  she  had  been  when  she  came.  The  total  result  of  her 
call  had  not  been  to  cheer  her,  for  by  an  uncomfortable 
stirring  within,  as  soon  as  she  had  finished,  she  was  made  to 
repent  having  talked  to  outsiders  about  things  so  personal, 
so  private,  regarding  Gerald — Gerald,  who  was  infinitely 
reserved.  It  seemed  a  crime  against  friendship.  That 
somebody  else  would  have  been  sure  to  tell  his  story  did  not 
excuse  her. 

Leslie's  mood  to  talk  was  over  for  that  morning  and  she 
went  home,  but  not  before  she  had  been  forced  to  take  a 
bottle  of  perfume  which  she  had  carelessly  picked  up  off 
Aurora's  toilet-table,  sniffed,  and  praised;  also,  lifted  out 
of  their  vase,  a  bunch  of  orchids  for  her  mother;  and  for 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  81 

Lily  the  box  of  sweets  that  had  stood  invitingly  open  on  the 
sitting-room  table. 

Next  time  Aurora  saw  Gerald — it  was  on  Viale  Principe 
Amedeo — she  waved  to  him. 

He  did  not  see  it.  He  was  just  aware  of  a  victoria  com- 
ing down  the  middle  of  the  street  he  was  preparing  to  cross 
and  of  something  fluttering,  but  that  it  concerned  him  he 
did  not  suspect. 

Then  suddenly  the  victoria,  like  a  huge  Jack-in-the-box, 
shot  up  a  figure,  and  he  recognized  Mrs.  Hawthorne  standing 
at  full  height  in  the  moving  carriage,  and  waving  both 
hands,  as  he  must  suppose,  nobody  else  being  near, — to  him. 

He  lifted  his  hat.  He  saw  her  reach  for  the  coachman 
and  by  touch  make  him  aware  that  she  wished  to  stop.  The 
horses  were  pulled  up.  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  from  the  seat  into 
which  the  jerk  had  thrown  her,  made  beckoning  signs  to  him, 
laughing  the  while,  and  calling, ' '  Mr.  Fane !     Mr.  Fane ! "  " 

He  went  to  stand  at  the  carriage-step. 

*'I  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  "that  you  were  going 
to  come  and  take  us  sight-seeing. ' ' 

' '  I  thought  I  was, ' '  said  Gerald,  with  that  scant  smile  of 
his;  ''but  I  was  not  so  fortunate  as  to  find  you  at  home." 

It  was  true  that  he  had  gone  to  her  door  one  afternoon, 
having  previously  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  in  the  heart  of 
the  city,  shopping. 

**You  mean  to  say  you  came?" 

*'You  did  not  find  my  card?" 

''No;  but  it's  all  right.  This  is  Miss  Madison— Mr. 
Fane.     We  are  together.     What  have  you  got  to  do  ? " 

Gerald  looked  as  if  the  question  had  not  been  quite  clear, 


82  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

and  he  waited  for  some  amplification  of  it  before  he  could 
answer. 

''Have  you  got  anything  very  important  to  do?  Are  n't 
you  lonesome?  Don't  you  want  to  jump  in  and  come  home 
with  us?     Wish  you  would." 

Gerald  smiled  again  in  his  remote  way,  and  looked  as  if 
he  knew,  as  any  one  would  know,  that  this  was  not  meant  to 
be  taken  seriously. 

"I  have  just  seen  a  beautiful  spectacle,"  he  said,  after  a 
vague  head-shake  that  thanked  her  shadowily  for  an  unreal 
invitation.  ''A  game  of  pallone,  which  is  the  nearest  to 
your  football  that  boys  have  over  here.  Beautiful  bronzed 
athletes  at  exercise,  a  delightful  sight,  statues  in  motion.  I 
go  to  see  them  whenever  I  can. — The  days  are  becoming  very 
short,  are  they  not  ? " 

' '  Yes.  Jump  in  and  come  home  with  us.  Tell  you  what 
we  '11  do.  I  '11  go  down  into  the  kitchen  and  make  some 
soda  biscuits  that  we  '11  have  hot  for  supper — with  maple 
syrup.     We  've  had  a  big  box  of  sugar  come." 

Gerald  again  smiled  his  civil,  but  joyless,  smile,  and  after 
another  vague  head-shake  that  thanked,  but  eluded  the  ques- 
tion, he  said:  ''They  are  very  indigestible;  hot  bread  is 
not  good  for  the  health.  At  least,  that  is  what  they  tell  us 
over  here.  We  keep  our  bread  two  days  before  eating  it,  or 
longer.     But  I  am  afraid  I  am  detaining  you." 

The  horses  were  jingling  their  bits,  frisking  their  docked 
tails.  The  driver,  checking  their  restless  attempts  to  start, 
was  giving  them  smothered  thunder  in  Italian.  Gerald 
withdrew  by  a  step  from  the  danger  to  his  shins. 

* '  Oh,  jump  in ! "  said  Mrs.  Hawthorne  for  the  third  time. 
And  because  his  choice  lay  between  saying  curtly,  *' Impos- 
sible!" and  letting  the  impatient  horses  proceed,  or  else 


i    tlioiiglit,"    said    Mrs.    Hawthorne,    "tliu't    }^-(ni    wcic    ^oin^    to 
come  and  take  us  siirht-seeintr" 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  83 

obeying,  Gerald,  who  hated  being-  rude  to  women,  found 
himself  irresolutely  climbing  in,  just  long  enough,  as  he 
intended,  to  explain  that  he  could  not  and  must  not  go 
home  with  them  to  the  hot  biscuits  and  syrup. 

The  little  third  seat  had  been  let  down  for  him ;  his  knees 
were  snugly  wedged  in  between  those  of  the  ladies.  Aurora 
was  beaming  over  at  him;  Estelle  was  beaming,  too.  Au- 
rora's smile  was  a  blandishment;  Estelle 's  was  a  light. 
The  horses  were  flying  toward  the  Lungarno.  And  he  gave 
up ;  he  helplessly  gave  up  trying  to  find  an  excuse  for  asking 
to  be  set  down  again  and  allowed  to  go  his  lonely  way. 

It  might  be  entertaining,  he  tried  to  think,  to  see  what 
they  had  done  to  the  Hermitage.  But  no !  That  was  very 
sure  to  be  revolting.  If  the  evening  were  to  afford  enter- 
tainment, it  must  be  found  in  watching  this  healthy  and  un- 
hampered being  who,  just  as  certain  fishes  color  the  water 
around  them,  seemed  to  affect  the  air  in  such  a  way  that, 
coming  near  enough,  you  were  forced  to  like  her,  without 
ceasing  to  think  her  the  most  impossible  person  that  had 
ever  found  her  way  into  cultivated  society. 

The  carriage-wheels  crunched  gravel;  the  horses'  hoofs 
rang  on  the  pavement  of  a  columned  portico ;  the  door  was 
opened  by  a  man  in  blue  livery. 

Entering  the  wide  hall,  they  faced  an  ample  double  stair- 
case, between  the  converging  flights  of  which  stood,  closed, 
a  great  stately  white-and-gold  door. 

Gerald,  as  bidden,  followed  the  ladies  up  the  stairs  to 
the  cozier  sitting-room,  where  a  fire,  they  hoped,  had  been 
kept  up.  In  the  beginning  dimness  of  an  early  twilight 
he  first  saw  the  big  red  flowers  and  green,  green  leaves.  He 
was  left  a  moment  alone  while  the  ladies  took  off  their  hats, 
and  he  sent  his  eyes  traveling  around  him,  prepared  really 


84  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

for  something  worse  than  they  found,  though  the  pictures 
on  the  wall  called  from  him  the  gesture  of  trying  to  sweep 
away  an  unpleasant  dream. 

Aurora  reappeared  from  her  room  in  a  businesslike  white 
apron. 

''Now  I  'm  going  down  to  make  the  biscuit.  Oh, 
no  trouble.  No  trouble  at  all.  I  want  them  myself.  I  'm 
homesick  for  some  food  that  tastes  like  home.  Estelle  will 
entertain  you  while  I  'm  gone.     I  sha'n't  be  but  a  minute.'' 

Estelle  sat  in  a  low  arm-chair  close  to  the  fire. 

Gerald,  to  whom  it  did  not  seem  cold  enough  for  a  fire, 
took  a  seat  nearer  the  windows,  whence  he  could  watch  the 
fading  sunset-end  beyond  garden  and  street,  river  and  hill. 

He  would  have  cared  less,  no  doubt,  to  make  himself  not 
too  dull  company  for  this  stranger,  had  he  known  that  there, 
before  that  fireplace,  a  few  days  before,  she  had  been  placed 
in  possession  of  the  most  intimate  facts  of  his  humiliating 
destiny.  Unsuspecting,  in  a  mood  rather  more  amiable  than 
usual,  he  asked,  by  way  of  entering  into  conversation, 
whether  she  and  her  friend  were  not  New-Englanders.  It 
established  the  sense  of  a  bond,  however  light,  to  find  that 
they  and  he  were  almost  townsmen.  He  had  been  born  in 
Boston,  or,  at  least,  near  it.  His  parents  had  owned  a 
house  in  Charlestown,  where  he  had  lived  till  he  was  ten 
years  old.     They  talked  for  a  while  of  Boston. 

He  had  heard  a  singular  thing,  he  said,  she  might  be  able 
to  tell  him  how  true :  that  in  Boston  a  new  medical  method 
had  arisen  by  which  the  sick  were  said  to  be  made  well  with- 
out the  help  of  drugs.  Mind  cure,  he  believed  it  was  called. 
It  seemed  very  extraordinary,  and  rather  interesting,  if  it 
were  not  all  a  fraud  or  a  fable,  that  persons  of  the  most 
prosaic,  as  these  had  been  described  to  him,  should  go  about 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  85 

professing  to  do  for  a  fee  the  same  thing  that  saints  of  old 
are  recorded  to  have  done  through  their  mysterious  powers. 
The  subject  had  come  into  his  mind — he  went  on  making 
conversation — from  recently  re-reading  a  book  of  George 
Sand's,  La  Petite  Fadette,  in  which  a  cure  is  performed 
which  seemed  to  him  very  similar.  If  she  had  not  read  the 
book,  she  must  permit  him  to  bring  it  for  her  perusal.  He 
talked  about  the  book. 

A  maid  brought  in  a  lighted  lamp,  and,  as  is  the  pleasant 
custom  of  the  country,  wished  them  a  happy  evening. 

Very  soon  after  it  came  Aurora,  with  a  dab  of  flour  on 
one  cheek,  which  the  kitchen  fire  had  warmed  to  a  deeper 
pink. 

''There,"  she  said,  ''they  're  all  ready  for  the  oven. 
When  we  took  the  house,  all  the  stove  we  had  was  a  big 
stone  block  thing  with  little  square  holes.  The  cook  fanned 
them  with  a  turkey-wing.  But  now  we  've  got  a  range. 
Don't  you  want  me  to  show  you  over  the  house?  There  '11 
be  just  time  before  supper." 

"I  'm  afraid  it  's  all  dark,"  said  Estelle.  "Let  me  ring 
and  have  them  light  up.  Think  of  a  city  house  without 
gas!" 

"No,  they  'd  be  too  long.     I  can  take  a  lamp." 

She  went  for  it  to  her  dressing-room,  and  came  back  with 
one  easy  to  carry,  long  in  the  stem  and  small  in  the  tank, 
from  which,  to  make  it  brighter,  she  had  lifted  off  the  shade. 
Gerald  reached  to  take  it  from  her,  but  she  refused  his 
help. 

"The  weight  's  nothing.  I  want  you  to  be  free  to  look 
around.     Coming,  E  stelle  ? ' ' 

"I  '11  join  you  in  a  minute." 

They  went  down  the  wide  stairs  side  by  side.     She  led 


86  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

through  a  door,  at  the  right,  as  you  entered  the  house,  of  the 
main  door. 

' '  Here  's  one  of  the  parlors.  We  have  four  on  this  floor, 
between  big  and  little.  Four  parlors  and  a  dining-room. 
Does  n  't  that  seem  a  good  many  for  two  lone  women  ? ' ' 

The  unshaded  lamplight  showed  a  crowd  of  furniture, 
modern,  muffled,  expensive,  the  lack  of  simplicity  in  design 
of  which  was  further  rendered  dreadful  to  the  artist  by 
every  device  to  make  it  still  less  simple,  embroidered  scarfs 
thrown  over  chair-backs,  varicolored  textiles  depending 
from  the  mantel-shelf,  drooping  over  the  mirror,  down  pil- 
lows of  every  shape  and  tint  piled  in  sofa-comers.  Nothing 
was  left  undecorated.  The  waste-basket  even  wore  a  fat 
satin  bow,  like  a  pet  poodle.  Every  horizontal  surface  was 
encumbered  with  knick-knacks. 

' '  This  is  where  we  have  people  come  when  we  don 't  know 
them  very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  hardly  concealing 
her  pride.  **We  couldn't  ask  the  minister  to  come  right 
up-stairs,  as  we  did  you.     How  do  you — " 

* '  Mrs.  Hawthorne, ' '  came  hurriedly  from  Gerald,  * '  I  beg 
you  will  not  ask  me  how  I  like  it !  It  is  a  peculiarity  like 
—like  not  liking  oysters.  I  can 't  bear  to  be  asked  how  I  like 
things." 

' '  How  funny !  But,  then,  you  're  different  from  other 
people,  aren't  you?  That  's  what  makes  you  so  interest- 
ing." 

•  She  preceded  him  into  the  next  room,  which  was  not  so 
bad  as  the  first  for  the  reason  that,  as  she  explained,  'Hhey 
had  n't  yet  finished  with  it. ' '  He  seized  the  occasion  almost 
eagerly  to  praise  the  chairs. 

*' We  found  them  here  when  we  came,"  she  informed  him. 
** There  was  a  good  lot  of  furniture  of  this  big,  bare  sort; 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  87 

clumsy,  I  call  it.  We  stored  some  of  it  in  the  top  rooms,  but 
Leslie  Foss  begged  me  so  to  let  these  stay  that  we  just 
had  the  seats  covered  over  with  this  new  stuff  and  left 
them." 

When  she  opened  the  next  door  and  stepped  into  the 
space  beyond  it  seemed  as  if  her  lamp  had  dwindled  to  a 
taper,  the  room  was  so  vast.  It  had  nine  great  windows, 
five  in  an  unbroken  row  on  the  front  of  the  house  the  entire 
width  of  which  it  occupied.  Aurora's  light  was  faintly 
reflected  in  a  polished  floor ;  it  twinkled  in  the  myriad  mo- 
tionless drops  of  two  great  crystal  chandeliers. 

**Ah,"  exclaimed  Gerald  in  a  long  sigh.  ''This  is  su- 
perb!" 

''Yes,"  she  said,  "but  you  might  as  well  try  to  furnish 
all  outdoors.  You  see  that  we  have  n  't  done  anything  be- 
yond putting  up  curtains.  We  never  use  it.  All  those 
chairs  along  the  walls  are  going  to  be  regilded  when  we  can 
get  them  to  come  and  fetch  them.  Things  move  awfully 
slowly  over  here,  don 't  they,  even  if  you  're  willing  to  pay. ' ' 

"What  a  ball-room!" 

"Yes.  Wish  we  could  give  a  ball;  but  we  only  know 
about  a  dozen  people.  We  Ve  got  to  wait  till  we  know 
enough  at  least  for  two  sets  of  a  quadrille. ' ' 

She  was  moving  across  the  wide  floor,  holding  her  torch- 
like lamp  high  the  better  to  illumine  the  great  pale,  silent 
emptiness.  No  longer  hearing  his  footsteps  echoing  behind 
hers,  she  looked  over  her  shoulder ;  whereupon  he  hurriedly 
joined  her,  without  explaining  why  he  had  lagged. 

"This,"  she  said,  as  turning  to  the  left  they  passed  from 
the  ball-room  into  a  small  oval  room  the  domed  ceiling  of 
which  was  all  tenderly  bepainted  with  Cupids  and  garlands 
— ' '  this  is  almost  my  favorite.  * ' 


88  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

She  set  down  her  lamp  on  a  table  of  rose-tinged  marble, 
and  dropped  for  a  minute  on  to  a  little  rococo  settee. 

**The  things  in  here  we  found  just  as  you  see  them." 

*'So  I  imagined." 

**A11  but  the  ornaments  on  the  mantel." 

*'Very  astute  in  me;  I  divined  that,  too." 

**We  liked  it,  so  we  left  it.  Pretty,  ain't  it?  Oh,  beg 
pardon ! ' '  She  blushed  and  looked  at  him  sidelong,  laugh- 
ing. ^ '  That  was  a  bad  break !  That  came  mighty  near  to 
being  the  forbidden  question  how  you  like  it.  All  the  same, 
it  is  pretty,  is  it  notf^^ 

*' Extremely.     Extremely  pretty." 

*' There  are  going  to  be  some  tapestries  presently.  Oh, 
don't  be  afraid!  Not  those  old  worsted  things  full  of  mag- 
gots, but  beautiful  new  ones,  painted  by  hand,  all  in  these 
same  delicate  colors.  A  story  in  four  scenes,  one  for  each 
panel.  The 'Fountain  of  Love' is  the  subject.  It  sounds  to 
me  like  something  Biblical,  Sunday-schoolish,  but  Mr.  Hunt 
says,  no,  it  is  not.'' 

''Mr.  Hunt—" 

**The  nephew,  Charlie.  You  know  him,  don't  you? 
He  's  getting  them  done  for  me.  He  's  a  great  friend  of 
mine.     He  's  helped  me  a  lot  to  buy  things." 

' '  Did  he  help  you  to  buy  the  pictures  ? ' ' 

''Yes.  He  knows  the  dealers,  and  gets  them  to  make  fair 
prices.  I  think  it  perfectly  wonderful  how  cheap  every- 
thing is  over  here.  He  helped  me  to  buy  these,  too. ' '  She 
lifted  the  chain  of  pink  corals,  graduated  from  the  size  of  a 
pea  to  that  of  a  hazelnut,  which  with  their  delicate  living 
color  brightened  her  winter  dress.  "I  can't  say,  though," 
she  dropped,  "that  I  found  these  particularly  cheap. 
Hush!"  she  broke  off.     "It's  Hat!     Quick!"  she  whis- 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  89 

pered,  "let  's  get  behind  the  door  and  say  'Boo!'  as  she 
comes  in." 

Amazingly,  incredibly  to  him,  this  grown  woman  ap- 
peared about  to  ensconce  herself. 

**But  won't  it  make  her  jump?"  he  asked,  supposing  it  to 
be  Miss  Madison  for  whom  the  little  surprise  was  intended. 

''Of  course  it  '11  make  her  jump.  No  matter  how  often  I 
do  it,  she  jumps.     That  's  the  fun." 

' '  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  please  ! "  he  begged  nervously.  "  As  a 
very  special  favor  to  me,  don 't !  It  would  make  me  jump, 
too — horribly. ' ' 

She  stood  listening  while  the  footsteps  turned  away  and 
faded  fruitlessly.  With  a  look  of  disappointment,  as  at 
opportunity  missed,  she  took  up  her  lamp  and  moved  on. 

"And  here,"  she. said,  leaving  the  oval  room  by  the  door 
opposite  to  the  one  they  had  come  through,  "is  the  dining- 
room.  "Which  takes  us  back  to  the  hall  and  completes  the 
circle." 

This  room,  of  a  fine  new  Pompeian  red,  was  lighted.  The 
table  was  set;  a  butler  busied  himself  at  the  sideboard. 
Gerald 's  eye  was  caught  by  the  brightness  of  a  china  basket 
piled  high  with  sumptuous  fruit,  and  similarly  caught  the 
next  moment  by  the  pattern  of  the  curtains,  in  which  the 
same  rampant  red  lion  was  innumerably  repeated  on  a 
ground  of  wide-meshed  lace. 

' '  Would  n  't  it  be  a  lovely  house  to  give  a  party  in  ? "  she 
asked  him.  "Isn't  it  exactly  right  to  give  a  party  in? 
There  are  two  big  spare  chambers  up-stairs  at  the  back  that 
would  do,  one  for  gentlemen,  one  for  ladies,  to  lay  off  their 
things  in.     No  use ;  we  shall  have  to  give  a  party." 

Having  returned  up-stairs,  he  was  without  any  false  deli- 
cacy shown  her  bedroom  and  her  friend's  bedroom  and  their 


90  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

dressing-rooms,  as  well  as  given  a  peep  into  the  two  spare 
rooms,  as  yet  incompletely  furnished,  that  he  might  get  an 
idea  how  beautiful  these  were  going  to  be  when  finally 
industry  and  good  taste  had  been  brought  to  bear  on  them. 

At  dinner,  which  Mrs.  Hawthorne  seemed  to  have  a  fixed 
preference  for  calling  supper,  it  was  Gerald  who  did  most 
of  the  talking.  The  ladies  abandoned  the  lead  to  him,  and 
listened  with  flattering  attention  while  he  called  into  use  his 
not  too  sadly  rusted  social  gifts.  He  related  what  he  knew 
about  the  Indian  Prince  whose  monument  at  the  far  end  of 
the  Cascine  had  roused  their  interest.  He  explained  the 
Misericordia.  He  asked  if  they  had  noticed  the  wonderful 
figures  of  babies  over  the  colonnade  of  the  Foundling  Hos- 
pital, and  told  them  how  the  ' '  infantile  asylum, "  as  he  ren- 
dered it,  was  managed.  He  tried  to  amuse  them  by  the 
episodes  from  which  certain  streets  in  Florence  have  de- 
rived their  names,  Street  of  the  Dead  Woman,  Street  of  the 
Dissatisfied,  Burg  of  the  Blithe. 

Whenever  he  stopped  there  was  silence,  which  he  hastened 
again  to  break. 

**You  talk  like  Leslie,"  suddenly  remarked  Mrs.  Haw- 
thorne. 

But  now  came  the  hot  biscuits  and  the  syrup,  borne  in  by 
the  mystified  butler  at  the  same  time  as  the  more  conven- 
tional dessert  prepared  by  the  cook. 

Aurora  smiled  at  the  biscuits'  beautiful  brown  axid,  hav- 
ing broken  one  to  test  its  lightness,  nodded  in  self -approval. 

' '  They  're  all  right.  Now  you  want  to  put  on  lots  of  but- 
ter," she  said.  *'Here,  that 's  not  near  enough,"  she 
reproved  him.  She  reached  over,  took  his  biscuit,  buttered 
it  as  she  thought  it  should  be  buttered,  and  retutned  it  to  his 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  91 

plate ;  then,  while  eating,  watched  him  eat  with  eyes-  that 
expressed  her  simple  love  of  feeding  up  any  one,  man  or 
animal,  so  lean  as  he. 

There  had  been  shining  in  Aurora's  eyes  all  this  evening, 
when  they  rested  on  him,  a  look  of  great  kindness,  the  conse- 
quence of  knowing  how  badly  life  had  treated  him,  and 
desiring  that  compensation  should  be  made.  He  could  not 
fail  to  feel  that  warm  ray  playing  over  his  bleak  surface. 
He  could  not  but  think  what  nice  eyes  Mrs.  Hawthorne  had. 

When  he  asked  her  if  she  knew  how  to  make  many  other 
such  delicious  things  it  became  her  turn  to  talk.  Estelle 
here  joined  in,  and  they  exalted  the  fare  of  home,  affecting 
the  fiction  of  having  found  nothing  but  frogs'  legs,  cocks' 
combs,  and  snails  to  feed  upon  since  they  struck  Italy. 
Blueberry-pie — did  Mr.  Fane  remember  it  ?  Fried  oysters ! 
Buckwheat  cakes ! 

He  said  he  remembered,  but  did  not  confess  to  any  great 
emotion. 

''You  wait  till  Thursday,"  said  Aurora.  "It  's  Thanks- 
giving. We  're  going  to  have  chicken-pie,  roast  turkey, 
mince-pie,  squash-pie,  everything  but  cranberry  sauce.  We 
can't  get  the  cranberries.     Will  you  come?" 

In  haste  and  confusion  he  said,  alas!  it  would  be  impos- 
sible, wholly  impossible,  intimating  that  he  w^as  a  man  of  a 
thousand  engagements  and  occupations. 

But  after  an  interval,  and  talk  of  other  things,  he  in- 
quired, with  an  effect  of  enormous  discretion,  whether  he 
might  without  too  great  impertinence  ask  who  was  coming 
to  eat  that  wonderful  Thanksgiving  dinner  which  her  own 
hands,  he  must  suppose,  would  largely  have  to  prepare. 

"Just  the  Fosses.     All  the  Fosses." 

"Ah,  Mr.  Foss  will  feel  agreeably  like  the  great  Turk." 


92  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

* '  You  mean  he  '11  be  the  only  man  ?  I  guess  he  can  stand 
it.  We  thought  of  asking  Charlie  Hunt,  too,  but  he  's 
English  and  would  seem  an  outsider  at  this  particular  gath- 
ering. Wish  you  'd  come.  You  're  such  a  friend  of  theirs. 
Come  on,  come ! ' ' 

''Mrs.  Hawthorne,  you  are  so  very  unusually  kind.  If 
you  would  leave  it  open,  and  then  when  the  day  arrives,  if 
I  should  find  I  could  do  so  without — without — " 

''Oh,  yes.  Come  if  you  can.  And  be  sure,  now,  you 
come ! ' ' 

They  were  still  sitting  at  the  table — dinner  had  been  re- 
tarded by  the  circumstantial  round  of  the  house — when 
music  resounding  through  the  echoing  rooms  stopped  the 
talk. 

It  was  the  piano  across  the  hall  that  had  been  briskly  and 
powerfully  attacked.  The  "Royal  March"  of  Italy  was 
played,  first  baldly,  then  with  manifold  clinging  and 
wreathing  variations. 

Aurora  signed  to  the  servant  to  open  the  dining-room 
door.  All  three  at  the  table  sat  in  silence  till  the  end  of 
the  piece. 

Gerald  wondered  what  the  evening  caller  could  be  who 
made  the  moments  of  waiting  light  to  himself  in  this  fanciful 
manner. 

"It  's  Italo,"  said  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  rising.  "I  call  him 
Italo  because  I  never  can  remember  his  other  name.  Come, 
let  's  go  into  the  parlor. ' ' 

It  was  all  rosily  lighted.  Candles  set  on  the  piano  at  each 
side  of  the  music-rest  enkindled  glossy  high  lights  on  the 
nose-bump  and  forehead  bosses  of  Signor  Ceccherelli,  who 
at  Mrs.  Hawthorne 's  appearance  sprang  up  to  salute.  She 
reached  him  her  hand,  over  which  he  deeply  bowed. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  93 

"You  're  to  play  all  those  lovely  things  I  'm  so  fond  of,'* 
she  directed  him.  "  'The  Swallow  and  the  Prisoner,'  'The 
Butterflies, ' ' The  Cascade  of  Pearls. '  And  don't  forget  the 
'Souvenir  of  Saint  Helena.'  Then  the  one  of  the  soldiers 
marching  off  and  the  soldiers  coming  home  again.  All  our 
favorites.  Mr.  Fane —  Are  you  acquainted  with  each 
other?  Italo — you  '11  have  to  tell  him  your  name  yourself. 
All  I  can  think  of  is  Checkerberry. " 

*'Yes,  yes,  we  are  acquainted,"  said  Gerald,  hurriedly. 
**We  have  seen  each  other  many  times.     Come  staf* 

*'0h,  he  can  speak  English." 

**A  leetle,"  Ceccherelli  modestly  admitted. 

*'He  understands  everything  I  say.  We  have  great  con- 
versations. He  comes  every  evening  when  he  is  n't  engaged 
to  play  somewhere  else. ' ' 

She  went  to  sit  on  the  gorgeous  brocade  sofa,  arranging 
herself  amid  the  multitude  of  cushions  so  as  to  listen  long 
and  happily.  Estelle  preferring  a  straight-backed  chair, 
Gerald  took  the  other  corner  of  Aurora's  sofa.  Immedi- 
ately Ceccherelli  opened  with  "Souvenir  de  Sainte- 
Helene."  Aurora,  respectful  to  the  artist,  talked  in  a 
whisper. 

"He  's  so  talented !  You  simply  could  n 't  count  the 
pieces  he  can  play.  We  do  enjoy  it  so !  We  have  n't  any- 
thing in  particular  to  do  evenings  if  no  one  calls.  We  don 't 
often  go  out.  We  have  n  't  been  here  long  enough  to  know 
many  people.  And  aside  from  his  magnificent  playing,  the 
little  man  is  such  good  company!  We  do  have  fun! 
There,  I  mustn't  talk,  I  'm  keeping  you  from  listening." 

Gerald  settled  back,  too,  as  if  to  listen,  but  to  do  the  con- 
trary was  his  fixed  purpose,  even  though  the  pianist,  at  last 
appreciated,  put  into  his  playing  so  much  feeling  and  force. 


94  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

Gerald's  eyes  went  wandering  among  the  clutter  of  bric-a- 
brac,  from  a  green  bronze  lizard  to  a  mosaic  picture  of  Ro- 
man peasants,  from  a  leaning  tower  of  Pisa  to  a  Sorrento 
box.     Then  they  rose  to  the  paintings.     He  closed  them. 

The  music  was  describing  a  hero 's  death-bed,  besieged  by 
dreams  of  battle,  at  moments  so  noisy  that  Gerald  had  to 
open  his  eyes  again  for  a  look  of  curiosity  at  the  person  who 
could  produce  so  much  sound.  As  he  watched  him  and  his 
nose,  like  the  magnified  beak  of  a  hen, — the  nose  of  a  man 
who  loves  to  talk, — he  tried  a  little  to  imagine  those  merry 
evenings  spoken  of  by  Aurora.  The  fellow  looked  almost 
ludicrously  solemn  at  this  moment.  He  took  himself  and 
his  art  right  seriously,  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  it.  His 
face  was  a  map  of  the  emotions  expressed  by  the  music,  and 
wore,  besides,  according  to  his  conception  of  the  part,  the 
look  of  a  great  man  unacclaimed  by  his  own  generation. 

Dio!  what  an  ugly  little  man! 

Gerald  closed  his  eyes  again. 

The  last  cannon  was  fired  over  the  hero 's  grave,  the  music 
stopped.  The  ladies  applauded.  Gerald,  smiling  sickly, 
clapped  his  hands,  too,  without,  it  might  have  been  observed, 
making  any  noise  to  speak  of.  Estelle  went  to  the  piano  to 
compliment  the  player  more  articulately,  and  loitered  there, 
practising  her  French  while  he  perfected  himself  in  English, 
by  mutual  aid. 

**Italo,''  Mrs.  Hawthorne  interrupted  them,  ''play  that 
lovely  thing  of  your  own  now — you  know,  the  one  we  're 
so  crazy  about,  that  by  and  by  turns  into  a  waltz. ' ' 

Without  laying  upon  the  ladies  the  tiresome  necessity  of 
pressing  him,  the  composer  plunged  into  this  masterpiece, 
and  Gerald  sat  back  again,  wondering  what  the  little  man 
thought  of  hearing  himself  called  Italo  by  the  fair  forestiera. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  95 

He  was  dimly  troubled,  knowing  that  there  is  no  hope  of  an 
Italian  ever  really  understanding  the  ways  of  being  and 
doing  of  American  women,  and  especially  an  Italian  of  that 
class.  But  then  it  would  be  equally  difficult  to  make  this 
American  woman  understand  just  how  the  Italian  might 
misunderstand  her. 

He  permitted  himself  a  direct  look  at  her,  where  she 
rested  among  the  cushions,  with  eyes  closed  again  and  a 
smile  diffused  all  over  her  face;  her  whole  person,  indeed, 
permeated  with  the  essence  of  a  smile.  Extraordinary  that, 
loving  music  so  much,  one  could  so  much  love  such  music. 

She  surprised  him  by  opening  her  eyes  and  whispering: 

*' Don't  you  want  to  smoke?"  showing  that  for  a  moment 
at  least  she  had  not  been  thinking  of  music.  "You  can,  if 
you  want  to.  Here,  we  Ve  got  some.  Don't  go  and  think, 
now,  that  Estelle  and  I  have  taken  to  smoking.  Heavens 
above !  We  sent  out  for  them  the  other  night  when  Charlie 
Hunt  was  here." 

She  reached  across  the  table  near  her  and  handed  him  a 
box  of  cigarettes. 

He  was  very  glad  to  light  one.  To  smoke  is  soothing,  and 
he  felt  the  need  of  it.  Added  to  his  vague  distress  at  the 
spectacle  of  such  familiarity  from  these  ladies  to  that  impos- 
sible little  Italian,  a  ferment  of  resentment  was  disquieting 
him  apropos  of  Hunt — those  works  of  art  of  which  Hunt 
had  facilitated  the  purchase. 

Hunt,  of  a  truth,  ever  since  the  first  mention  of  him  that 
evening  had  been  like  a  fishbone  in  Gerald's  throat. 

He  checked  his  thoughts,  recognizing  that  it  is  not  sane  or 
safe  to  permit  oneself  to  interpret  the  conduct  of  a  person 
whom  one  does  not  like.  The  chances  of  being  misled  are 
too  great.     He  uprooted  a  suspicion  dishonoring  to  both. 


96  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

Let  it  be  taken  for  assured,  then,  that  Hunt  had  in  this 
case  no  interest  to  forward  beyond  his  love  for  making 
himself  important.  After  all,  if  the  ladies  liked  bad  pic- 
tures! .  .  .  Yet  it  was  a  shame  that  he  should  frequent 
their  house,  be  accepted  as  their  friend,  invited  by  them, 
made  much  of  in  their  innocent  and  generous  way,  then 
should  make  fun  of  them.  Permissible,  if  you  choose,  to 
make  fun  of  funny  people,  but  you  must  not  at  the  same 
time  make  use  of  their  kindness.  A  precept  for  the  perfect 
gentleman,  in  Florence  or  elsewhere:  You  can  make  fun 
of  persons,  or  you  can  cultivate  their  friendship,  but  not 
both  things  at  once.  And  Gerald,  without  proof,  felt  cer- 
tain that  Charlie  Hunt  spread  good  stories  about  Aurora. 

Mrs.  Innes,  his  mother's  old  friend,  meeting  him  at 
Vieusseux's  reading-room  a  few  days  before,  had  detained 
him  for  a  chat,  and  in  the  course  of  it  asked  him  if  he  knew 
this  Mrs.  Hawthorne  of  whom  the  Fosses  appeared  so  fond. 
An  amusing  type,  she  must  be.  Seeing  that  statue  of  the 
she-wolf  and  little  Romulus  and  Remus  at  the  foot  of  Vial 
de*  Colli,  it  seemed  she  had  asked  what  it  meant,  and  said 
she  didn't  believe  it. 

It  indefinably  hurt  him,  incommoded  some  nerve  of  en- 
venomed sensitiveness — yes,  annoyed  him  like  sand  in  his 
salad,  to  think  of  his  countrywoman,  with  the  good  faith  of 
a  dog  in  her  face,  so  quoted  as  to  make  her  ridiculous  by  a 
fellow  wanting  in  human  vitals,  like  Hunt. 

He  would  have  liked,  had  it  been  possible,  to  ask  a  few 
frank  questions  of  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  and  find  out  more  cer- 
tainly what  he  should  think.  He  would  have  liked  to  warn 
her  against  trusting  her  enormous  ignorance  to  one  who 
would  have  so  little  good-humor  and  protectiveness  toward 
that  baby-eyed  giant-child.     Really,  instinct  ought  to  teach 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  97 

her  better  whom  to  make  her  confident  as  respected  that 
grave  affair. 

Singularly,  when  next  the  music  stopped,  Mrs.  Haw- 
thorne, after  she  with  true  politeness  had  taken  the  box  of 
cigarettes  to  the  other  of  her  guests,  spoke  of  Hunt.  Per- 
haps her  thoughts,  too,  had  gone  straying,  and  mysteriously 
encountered  some  straying  thought  of  his. 

' '  Charlie  Hunt, ' '  she  said, ' '  is  coming  on  Sunday  morning 
to  take  us  to  the  picture-galleries.  We  're  going  to  play 
hooky  from  church.  His  work,  don't  you  see,  keeps  him  at 
the  bank  on  week  days  till  everything  of  that  sort  is 
closed. ' ' 

"Mrs.  Hawthorne,"  cried  Gerald  and  sat  up  in  unaf- 
fected indignation,  while  mustache,  beard,  hair,  everj^thing 
about  him  appeared  to  bristle,  "I  thought  I  had  been  en- 
gaged to  take  you  sight-seeing!  I  thought  it  was  to  be 
my  honor  and  privilege.  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  my  dear  friend, 
if  you  do  not  wish  deeply  to  hurt  me,  deeply  to  hurt  me, 
you  will  write  to  Mr.  Hunt  at  once,  this  evening,  and  I  will 
post  the  letter,  that  you  have  thought  better  of  that  immoral 
plan  for  Sunday  morning,  and  are  going  to  church  like  a 
good  Christian  woman.  And  to-morrow,  Mrs.  Hawthorne, 
at  whatever  time  will  be  convenient  for  you,  I  will  come  and 
take  you  to  the  Uffizi." 


CHAPTER  VI 

AND  so  because,  in  his  uncalled-for  chivalry,  he  had 
made  himself  guide  to  a  lady  in  a  ball-room, 
Gerald,  one  thing  leading  to  another,  was  once 
more  committed  to  serving  as  a  guide  in  Florence. 

He  had  filled  the  part  so  often,  at  the  appeal  of  one  good 
friend  and  another,  that  he  had  sworn  never  again  to  be 
caught,  cajoled,  or  hired.  He  could  have  hated  the  Ghiberti 
doors  had  such  a  thing  not  been  impossible.  He  did  rather 
hate  the  Santissima  Annunziata.  And  now  it  was  all  to  do 
over  again. 

It  might  be  adduced,  as  a  mitigation  of  his  misfortune, 
that  this  was  different. 

This  was  sometimes  very  different. 

A  singular  thing  about  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Haw- 
thorne was  that  it  had  in  a  sense  no  beginning.  One 
started  fairly  in  the  middle.  No  sooner  did  one  meet  her 
than  one  seemed  to  have  known  her  long  and  know  her 
well.  Most  people  found  this  so.  One  therefore  readily 
slid  into  speaking  one's  mind  to  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  dis- 
pensing with  the  formal  affectation  of  a  perfect  respect 
for  her  every  act  and  opinion,  secure  in  the  recognition 
that  anger,  sulkiness,  the  self-love  that  easily  takes  um- 
brage, were  as  far  from  her  breezy  sturdiness  as  the 
scrupulosities  of  an  anxious  refinement. 

That  one  could  say  what  one  pleased  to  Mrs.  Hawthorne 
put  more  life  into  intercourse  with  her,  naturally,  than  there 

98 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  99 

would  have  been  if,  with  her  limitations,  one  had  been  forced 
to  be  entirely  and  tamely  circumspect. 

''Mrs.  Hawthorne,"  cried  Gerald,  ''do  me  the  very  real 
favor,  will  you,  like  a  dear  good  woman,  of  not  calling  the 
most  venerable  of  the  primitives  Simma  Bewey ! ' ' 

It  was  astonishing  what  things  Gerald  Fane  could  say 
without  losing  his  effect  of  a  complete,  even  considerate  po- 
liteness. 

"But  that  's  the  way  it  's  written,"  said  Mrs.  Haw- 
thorne. 

' '  You  will  pardon  the  liberty  I  take  of  contradicting  you ; 
it  is  not.     It  gives  me  goose-flesh.     Cimabue ! ' ' 

* '  Very  well.  I  '11  try  to  remember.  But  it  does  n  't  mat- 
ter what  I  call  him;  his  Madonna  is  no  beauty.  Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  there  was  a  time  when  people  admired  faces 
like  that?     She  gives  me  a  pain." 

"That  is  not  the  point;  her  beauty  is  not  the  point.  Be- 
sides, she  is  beautiful." 

' '  Oh,  very  well.  If  you  'd  like  to  have  me  look  like  her, 
lean." 

She  tipped  her  head  to  one  side,  lengthened  her  jaw, 
pointed  her  hand,  and  by  a  knack  she  had  for  mimicry  made 
herself  vaguely  resemble  the  large-eyed,  small-mouthed, 
pale  and  serious  Lady  of  Heaven  before  whose  portrait  by 
the  old  master  this  dialogue  took  place. 

"It  is  really  a  very  poor  joke,  Mrs.  Hawthorne,"  Gerald 
said,  with  mouth  distorted  by  the  conflict  between  laughter 
and  disgust.  ' '  To  travesty  a  dignified  and  sacred  thing  is  a 
very  poor  pastime.  Of  course  I  laugh.  ]\Iiss  Madison 
laughs,  and  I  laugh.  I  think  very  poorly  of  it,  all  the  same. 
You  would  do  much  better  to  frame  your  mind  to  an  attitude 
of  respect  and  try  to  understand.     I  can 't  say,  though,  that 


100  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

I  think  it  unnatural  you  should  not  at  first  appreciate  the 
earliest  old  masters.  We  will  go  to  look  at  something  more 
obvious. ' ' 

"Wait  a  moment.  These  fascinate  me,  they  're  so  queer 
and  so  awful.  I  tell  you  those  old  codgers  of  the  time  you 
say  these  belong  to  had  strong  nerves  and  stomachs.  All 
these  wounds  and  dripping  blood  and  hollow  ribs  and  crim- 
inals being  boiled  in  caldrons,  and  having  their  heads  cut 
off  and  arrows  shot  into  them !  .  .  .  I  guess  you  're  right ; 
we  'd  better  move  on  to  something  more  cheerful." 

Miss  Madison  was  never  guilty  of  the  foolishness  that  fell 
from  Mrs.  Hawthorne's  gross  and  unconcerned  ignorance. 
Miss  Madison  took  modesty  and  tact  with  her,  as  well  as 
keenness  of  eye,  when  she  went  to  picture-galleries  and 
museums.  But  this,  strange  to  say,  did  not  make  her  the 
more  acceptable  companion  of  the  two  to  their  guide.  What 
Miss  Madison  did  never  seemed  so  important  as  what  her 
larger,  weightier  friend  did.  The  one  personality  to  a 
singular  extent  eclipsed  the  other,  who  was  accustomed  to 
this  to  the  point  of  not  feeling  it.  A  laughing  lack  of  con- 
ceit in  both  women  marvelously  simplified  their  relation. 

Gerald,  in  choosing  pictures  for  their  enjoyment,  avoided 
with  a  conscientiousness  of  very  special  brand  to  halt  with 
them  before  paintings  fit  to  please  their  unpracticed  eyes 
but  which  he  did  not  think  worthy  of  admiration.  He  like- 
wise passed  Venuses,  Eves,  Truths,  all  nudities,  without  re- 
mark or  pause,  acquainted  of  old  with  the  simple-minded 
prudery  of  certain  Americans,  and  not  disrespectful  to  it. 

"Mrs.  Hawthorne,"  he  said,  "to  be  ignorant  is  no  sin. 
One  may  have  been  doing  beautiful,  gracious,  useful  and 
merciful  things  while  others  were  cultivating  the  arts  and 
sciences.     But  ignorance  on  any  subject  is  not  in  itself 


AURORA  THE  MAGNi:^"iCEN:T  101 

beautiful  or  desirable.  One  should  therefore  not  be  com- 
placent in  it,  proud  of  it.  With  a  little  humility,  Mrs.  Haw- 
thorne, what  can  one  not  hope  to  accomplish  ?  Now,  please, 
Mrs.  Hawthorne,  drop  all  preconception,  and  use  your  eyes. 
Look  at  that  angel." 

' '  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  I  could  live  long  enough  to  think 
that  angel  beautiful  ?  "With  those  Chinese  eyes  ?  .  .  .  Give 
it  up,  my  friend,  why  do  you  want  to  bother  ? ' ' 

"Because,  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  you  have  essentially  a  good 
brain.  You  are  at  the  back  of  all  a  very  intelligent 
woman — " 

' '  Go  'way  with  you !  You  know  that  if  you  feed  me  taffy 
enough  you  can  make  me  see  and  say  anything  you  want. ' ' 

'' — a  very  intelligent  woman.  And  I  am  so  constituted 
that  I  simply  cannot  go  on  living  in  the  same  world  with  a 
really  intelligent  woman — my  friend,  besides — who  does  not 
see  the  difference  between  Raphael  and  Guido  Reni,  and 
likes  one  exactly  as  well  as  the  other.     I  ache  to  change  it ! " 

' '  Go  ahead.  We  don 't  want  you  to  die.  But  I  'm  afraid 
it  '11  take  surgery.  You  '11  have  to  drill  a  hole  in  my  thick 
head  to  get  the  things  you  mean  into  that  good  brain  so 
full  of  real  intelligence. ' ' 

' '  If  you  would  n  't  be  flippant ! ' ' 

''What 's  that?" 

*'If  you  would  bring  reverence  to  the  study  of  things 
done  by  great  people,  and  that  people  of  great  taste  and 
learning  have  collected  for  our  joy  and  improvement!" 

' '  See  here !  Don 't  you  want  me  to  have  a  little  fun 
while  we  do  Florence?  I  don't  see  how  I  can  stand  it,  if 
we  're  to  be  solemn  as  those  old  saints  with  mouldy  green 
complexions. ' ' 

We  're  not  to  be  solemn.     I  have  done  these  galleries 


i  i 


102  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

solemnly  times  enough,  Heaven  knows.  But  we  're  to  be 
attentive,  respectful,  of  an  open  and  receptive  mind. 
We  're  not  to  say  outrageous  things  in  the  mere  desire  to 
shock  our  guide,  or  tease  him." 

' '  You  don 't  mean  to  say  you  think  that  I —  ? ' ' 

''It  's  not  funny." 

' '  It  may  n  't  be  funny — but  it  's  fun  !  Go  on  and  lecture. 
You  have  n't  got  a  bit  of  fun  in  you." 

"Yes,  I  have!"  said  Gerald,  and  with  a  creeping  smile — 
grudging  at  first,  then  brighter — looked  Mrs.  Hawthorne  in 
the  eye,  while  such  fun  as  lived  in  him  traveled  over  the 
bridge  of  their  glances,  and  she  was  permitted  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  his  underlying  relish. 

"All  I  ask  of  you,  Mrs.  Hawthorne,"  he  said,  finally,  "is 
that  you  will  not  let  your  innocence  on  these  subjects  appear 
when  you  are  with  others.  I  don 't  say  pretend.  Just  keep 
still,  be  silent !  It  does  not  matter  when  you  are  with  me. 
When  you  are  with  me  I  beg  of  you  to  be  yourself.  But 
with  others.  .  .  .  You  would  become  the  talk  of  the  town, 
and — "  he  shuddered,  "I  should  most  horribly  hate  it !" 

"Mrs.  Hawthorne,"  he  said,  with  a  quiver  of  annoyance 
in  his  voice  a  few  days  later,  * '  did  I  not  implore  you  not  to 
let  it  be  known  in  Florence  how  you  are  affected  by  the 
proudest  treasures  of  her  world-famous  collections?" 

"Yes,  you  told  me.     But  I  didn't  promise." 

"And  now  I  am  asked — with  laughter  and  mockery — 
whether  I  have  seen  Mrs.  Hawthorne  giving  an  imitation 
of  a  Madonna  by  Simma  Bewey,  and  heard  Mrs.  Haw- 
thorne on  the  subject  of  G.  Ottow  and  Others." 

"Didn't  you  say— with  laughter?  Well,  then,  it  's  all 
right.     Don't  you  care.     I  just  got  to  training  and  did  it 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  103 

to  make  them  a  little  sport.  Did  n't  they  tell  you  about  my 
Native  of  Italy  eating  Macaroni?" 

"Mrs.  Hawthorne,  you  are  just  a  bad  big  school-girl — a 
bad  big  school-girl — " 

**  'Hark,  from  the  tomb!'  "  said  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  in  lieu 
of  anything  more  scintillating. 

"A  bad  big  school-girl,  and  I  will  have  nothing  more  to 
do  with  you.  If  you  delight  in  being  the  talk  of  the  town, 
all  you  have  to  do  is  allow  your  friend  Mr.  Hunt  in  his  spare 
hours  to  take  you  to  see  such  things  as  I  have  not  yet  had  the 
honor  of  showing  you." 

' '  Blessed  if  I —  Look  here,  you  are  n  't  mad  in  earnest  ? 
Sooner  'n  lose  you,  I  won 't  say  another  word.  There ! 
I  've  been  Tchee-mah-boo-eh 's  Madonna  for  the  last  time. 
Don't  be  cross  with  little  T.  T.— Talk  of  the  Town !" 

' '  If  you  had  any  discrimination,  any  reticence  ..." 

*'No  reticence?  Does  that  mean  can't  keep  anything  to 
myself  ?     You  don 't  know  me ! " 

"You  even  tell  your  age." 

"You  are  n't  going  to  find  fault  with  me  for  thatf'^ 

"Yes.  At  your  age  one  should  know  better.  It  is  part 
of  your  general  and  too  great  frankness." 

They  upon  occasions  came  near  quarreling,  but  not  seri- 
ously, her  disposition  to  quarrel  was  so  small.  Yet,  two 
could  not  be  outspoken  and  one  of  them  irritable,  and  those 
rocks  never  even  be  grazed. 

She  unwarily  enlarged  to  him  one  day  upon  her  disap- 
pointment in  Florence.  By  this  time,  she  said,  she  was 
growing  used  to  it,  she  did  n  't  notice  so  much  the  things 
she  did  n't  like.  But  at  first,  with  her  expectation  high,  her 
imagination  inflamed  by  the  Judge's  and  Antonia's  elo- 
quence, the  narrow  streets,  in  some  of  them  no  sidewalks 


104  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

even,  the  gloomy  bars  at  the  windows,  the  muddy  river  with 
the  dirty  old  houses  huddled  on  the  bank,  the  stuffy  churches 
with  the  average  height  of  the  Italian  populace  marked  on 
the  pillars  by  a  dubious  grindy  brown  tint,  the  dreadful 
beggars,  the  black  finger-nails,  the  smells.  .  .  . 

''Mrs.  Hawthorne!"  came  from  Gerald,  who  with  diffi- 
culty had  let  her  go  on  thus  far,  ''those  were  all  you  no- 
ticed, were  they  ?  In  the  most  wonderful  city  in  the  whole 
world,  those  are  all  you  find  to  talk  about!  The  narrow 
streets,  the  beggars,  the  smells.  Mrs.  Hawthorne — "  he 
nearly  trembled  with  the  effort  to  keep  calm,  "this  is  ob- 
viously not  the  place  for  you.  You  should  have  gone  to  .  .  . 
to  Switzerland!  Instead  of  a  sunburned  hill-side,  with 
sober  silver  olives  and  solemn  black  cypresses,  and  a  pair  of 
beautiful  calm  white  oxen  plowing,  you  would  have  seen  a 
nice  grass-green  pasture,  at  the  foot  of  blinding  peaks,  cut 
by  an  arsenic-green  stream,  on  whose  bank  a  red  and  white 
cow  feeding!  Then  among  the  habitations  all  would  have 
been  well-regulated,  the  churches  swept,  perhaps  even 
ventilated,  the  people  washed,  clean  aprons,  clean  caps,  no 
beggars,  no  disorder,  no  crimes.  And  there  would  have 
been  no  disturbing  manifestations  of  genius,  either;  no 
troublesome  masterpieces  or  other  evidences  of  a  little  fire 
in  the  blood.  It  would  have  suited  you  perfectly.'' 
"I  guess  you  mean  that  to  be  cutting,  don't  you?" 
"Let  me  try  to  tell  you  how  much  I  liked  New  York,  when 
I  went  back  there  some  years  ago  after  an  absence  of  ten 
or  eleven  years.  I  had  some  idea,  you  know,  of  perhaps  re- 
turning to  live  in  America.  Well,  I  shivered.  I  shut  my 
eyes.  I  held  my  ears.  I  fled.  I  remained  just  the  time 
I  was  forced  to  by  the  affairs  of  my  poor  mother  and,  as 
I  tell  you,  I  fled!" 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  105 


''Why,  what  's  the  matter  with  New  York?'' 
"I  will  tell  you  what  is  the  matter  with  New  York,  with 
Boston,  with  all  the  places  in  America  that  I  have  seen 
again  since  I  was  grown  up — " 

"No!  Stop!  Don't  say  anything  against  America. 
It  's  the  one  way  to  make  me  mad. —  I  did  n  't  know  you 
felt  the  same  way  about  Florence.  You  are  n't  an  Italian, 
are  you?  It  's  because  we  're  both  alike  Americans  that 
we  sit  here  fighting  so  chummily." 


CHAPTER  VII 

LENDING  her  spacious  front  room  for  the  Christmas 
bazaar  in  aid  of  the  church,  and  beholding  it  full 
of  bustle  and  brightness,  was  the  thing  that  brought 
to  the  acute  stage  Mrs.  Hawthorne's  longing  to  see  her 
whole  house  the  scene  of  some  huge  good  time:  she  sent 
out  innumerable  invitations  to  a  ball.  Mrs.  Foss's  card 
was  inclosed  with  hers.  It  was  a  farewell  party  given 
for  Brenda,  whose  day  of  sailing  was  very  near.  The 
frequent  inquiry  how  Brenda  should  be  crossing  the  ocean 
so  late  in  the  year  met  with  the  answer  that  her  traveling 
companions  had  a  brother  whose  wedding  had  been  timed 
thus  awkwardly  for  them. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  before  the  ball  Gerald  came 
to  see  Mrs.  Hawthorne.  He  was  still  intrusting  the  serv 
ant  with  his  message  when  Aurora,  leaning  over  the  rail- 
ing of  the  hallway  above,  called  down  to  him,  * '  Come  right 
upstairs ! ' ' 

He  was  aware  of  unusual  activities  all  around — workmen, 
the  sound  of  hammering,  housemaids  plying  brooms  and 
brushes.  Leslie  Foss,  with  her  hat  on,  looked  from  the 
dining-room  and  said,  ' '  Hello,  Gerald ! "  too  busy  for  any- 
thing more.  Fraulein  seemed  to  be  with  her,  helping  at 
something. 

The  great  central  white-and-gold  door,  to-day  open,  per- 
mitted a  glimpse,  as  he  started  up  the  stairs,  of  a  man 
on  a  step-ladder  fitting  tall  wax-candles  into  one  of  the 

106 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  107 

great  chandeliers.  From  unseen  quarters  floated  Estelle's 
voice,  saying,  "Ploo  hah!    Nong,  ploo  hoe!'' 

Mrs.  Hawthorne  met  him  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  The 
slight  disorder  of  her  hair,  usually  so  tidy,  pointed  to  un- 
usual exertions  on  her  part,  also.  Her  face  was  flushed 
with  excitement  and,  to  judge  by  her  wreathing  smiles, 
with  happiness. 

'*I  saw  you  coming,"  she  greeted  him.  ^^Riverisco! 
Beata  Lei!  Mamma  mia!  And  do  you  know  how  I  saw 
you?     Come  here." 

She  led  the  way  to  the  back,  where  the  window-door 
stood  open  on  to  the  roof  of  the  portico,  which  formed  a 
terrace. 

**See?  I  Ve  had  it  glassed  in  for  to-morrow  night. 
We  couldn't  say  we  hadn't  plenty  of  rooms  before,  and 
plenty  of  room  in  them.  That  's  just  the  trouble :  there 
aren't  any  nooks  in  this  big,  square  house.  So  I  've  made 
one.  This  is  Flirtation  Alcove.  Here  a  loving  couple  can 
come  to  cool  off  after  dancing  and  look  up  at  the  stars  to- 
gether. Oh,  it  's  going  to  be  so  pretty !  You  can 't  tell 
anything  about  it  as  it  looks  now ;  I  Ve  only  got  these  few 
things  in  it.  But  the  gardeners  are  going  to  bring  all 
sorts  of  tall  plants  and  flowers  in  pots.  Just  wait  till  to- 
morrow night ! ' ' 

**You  are  very  busy,  I  am  afraid,  ]\Irs.  Hawthorne.  I 
ought  not  to  take  your  time." 

''Can't  you  sit  down  a  minute?" 

''I  have  come  to  ask  a  favor." 

*'I  guess  I  can  say  it  's  granted  even  before  you  ask." 

"I  should  like  to  retract  my  refusal  of  j^our  very  kind 
invitation  for  to-morrow  evening.  I  have  explained  to 
you  my  weak  avoidance  of  crowds.     I  have  determined  to 


108  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 


overcome  it  in  this  case,  and  I  want  your  permission  to 
bring  a  friend." 

"That?  How  can  you  ask?  Bring  ten!  Bring 
twenty !  Bring  as  many  as  you  Ve  got !  As  for  coming 
yourself,  I  'm  tickled  to  death  that  you  've  reconsidered." 

''It  's  not  quite  as  simple  as  it  seems,  Mrs.  Hawthorne. 
I  shall  have  to  tell  you  more." 

At  her  indication,  he  took  the  other  half  of  the  little 
dumpling  sofa  which  had  seemed  to  her  an  appropriate 
piece  of  furniture  for  Flirtation  Alcove,  and  which,  with 
a  rug  on  the  floor,  formed  so  far  its  only  decoration.  In 
the  clear,  bare  morning  light  of  outdoors,  which  bathed 
them,  she  still  looked  triumphantly  fresh,  but  he  looked 
tired. 

**It  is  Lieutenant  Giglioli  for  whom  I  have  come  to  beg 
an  invitation.     You  perhaps  know  whom  I  mean." 

"Let  me  see.  I  can't  tell.  Quite  a  few  officers  have 
been  introduced,  but  I  never  can  get  their  names." 

' '  Has  n  't  Mrs.  Foss  or  Leslie  ever  spoken  of  him  ? ' ' 

"Not  so  far  as  I  can  remember.  In  what  way  do  you 
mean?" 

"They  evidently  have  not."  He  seemed  to  be  given 
pause  by  this  and  need  to  gather  force  from  reflection  be- 
fore going  on,  as  he  did  after  a  moment,  overcoming  his 
repugnance.  "He  is  the  reason  for  poor  Brenda  being 
packed  off  to  America." 

"Oh,  is  that  it?" 

"He  came  to  see  me  last  evening  and  spent  most  of  the 
night  talking  of  her.  We  were  barely  acquainted  before; 
but  he  knew  I  am  a  close  friend  of  the  Fosses,  and  in  that 
necessity  to  ease  their  hearts  with  talk  which  Italians  seem 
to  feel  he  chose  me.     I  felt  sorry  for  him," 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  109 

''She  's  turned  him  down?" 

"No;  she  loves  him." 

Again  Gerald  stopped,  as  after  making  a  communication 
of  great  gravity.  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  listening  with  breath- 
less interest,  made  no  sound  that  urged  him  to  go  on.  The 
fact  he  had  announced  seemed  solemn  to  both  alike,  with 
the  vision  floating  between  them  of  Brenda's  white-rose 
face  and  deer's  eyes,  the  feeling  they  had  in  common  that 
Brenda,  for  indefinable  reasons,  was  not  like  ordinary  mor- 
tals, and  that  what  she  felt  was  more  significant,  more  im- 
portant. 

"But  he  has  nothing  beside  his  officer's  pay,'*  Gerald 
went  on  when  the  surprise  of  his  revelation  had  been  al- 
lowed time  to  pass,  "and  she  on  her  side  has  nothing  but 
what  her  parents  might  give  her,  who,  you  probably  know, 
have  no  great  abundance.  His  proposals  were  made  to 
them,  as  is  the  custom  in  this  country,  and  have  been 
formally  declined." 

He  left  it  to  her  to  appreciate  the  situation  created  by 
this,  and,  while  thinking  on  his  side,  ran  the  point  of 
the  slender  cane  which  he  had  not  abandoned  round 
and  round  the  same  figure  of  the  rug-pattern  at  their 
feet. 

' '  They  are  both  too  poor.  I  see, ' '  said  Mrs.  Hawthorne ; 
but  added  quickly,  as  if  she  had  not  really  seen :  "  It  seems 
sort  of  funny,  though,  does  n  't  it,  to  let  that  keep  them,  if 
they  're  fond  of  each  other?" 

"Oh,  it  's  not  that.  However  fond,  they  could  n't  marry 
without  her  bringing  her  husband  a  fixed  portion.  It  is 
the  law  in  this  country,  in  the  case  of  officers  of  the  army, 
— to  keep  up  the  dignity  of  that  impressive  body,  you  un- 
derstand.    In  the  case  of  a  lieutenant  the  dote,  or  dowry, 


110  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

must  be  forty  thousand  francs.  I  learned  the  exact  sum 
for  the  first  time  last  night." 

"How  much  is  that?  Let  me  see," — Mrs.  Hawthorne 
did  mental  arithmetic,  rather  quickly  for  a  woman, — ' '  eight 
thousand  dollars.     And  the  Fosses  can't  give  it." 

"Of  their  ability  to  give  it  if  they  wished  to  I  am  no 
judge.  I  dare  say  they  could,  though  with  their  son  John 
going  before  long  to  hang  out  his  shingle,  as  they  call  it, 
I  doubt  if  it  could  be  without  bleeding  themselves.  But 
they  are  not  convinced  that  the  sacrifice  ought  to  be  made. ' ' 
He  frowned  at  the  pattern  on  the  rug,  and  suddenly  cut 
at  it  impatiently  with  his  stick.  "It  is  a  singular  story, 
in  which  everybody  is  right  and  the  result  wrong,  horribly 
wrong ! ' ' 

"Oh,  dear  me!"  sighed  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  feeling  with 
him  even  before  understanding. 

"I  ought  perhaps  to  say,"  he  corrected,  "everybody  is 
good  and  well-meaning,  but  has  been  unwise.  And  every- 
body now  has  to  pay." 

"I  Ve  thought  right  along  that  the  Fosses  had  some  rea- 
son for  not  being  very  happy,"  said  Mrs.  Hawthorne, 
"and  I  guessed  it  was  something  about  Brenda.  But  they 
never  said  anything,  and  I  didn't  try  to  make  out. 
Brenda  does  n  't  take  to  me,  somehow,  as  the  others  do. 
I  'm  not  her  kind,  of  course ;  but  I  do  adore  her  from  afar. 
She  's  so  beautiful !  She  's  like  a  person  in  a  story-book, 
who  at  the  end  dies,  looking  at  the  sunset  over  the  sea,  or 
else  marries  the  prince." 

"Yes,  Brenda  is  wonderful." 

"I  never  should  take  her  for  an  American." 

"She  's  not  like  one,  and  yet  she  is.  She  has  grown  up 
in  this  country  and  breathed  in  its  ideas  and  feelings  till 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  111 

she  even  looks  Italian.  Her  parents  are  the  sort  of  Amer- 
icans that  fifty  years  of  foreign  countries  wouldn't  budge; 
but  they  began  later.  Still,  it  is  because  Brenda  is  Amer- 
ican, after  all,  that  cruelties  are  being  committed.  Her 
family  have  taken  it  for  granted  that  one  of  them  could  n't 
really  be  in  love  with  an  Italian,  least  of  all  that  joke,  a 
dapper  and  decorative  Italian  officer  that  a  girl  buys  at  a 
fixed  price  for  her  husband.  And  Brenda  can't  say  to 
them:  'But  I  am.  I  am  in  love  with  just  such  a  man. 
The  happiness  of  my  life  depends  upon  your  finding  the 
vulgar  sum  of  money  with  which  to  buy  him  for  me. '  Be- 
cause of  the  American-ness  all  round,  Brenda  can't  say 
that  to  them,  and  because  she  doesn't  say  it,  they  are  in 
doubt,  they  only  half  apprehend,  they  don't  understand. 
The  one  thing  they  are  sure  of  is  that  to  marry  a  foreigner 
is  a  mistake.  And  the  one  safe  thing  they  see  to  do,  when 
Brenda 's  face,  combined  with  her  entire  reserve  toward 
them,  has  begun  to  torment  them  seriously,  is  to  send  her 
away  where,  if  the  truth  be  that  she  mysteriously  is  'in- 
terested in'  an  Italian,  the  change  of  scene  may  help  to  put 
him  out  of  her  head." 

''So  that  's  why  they  're  sending  her  home!" 
' '  There  are  no  better  or  dearer  people  in  the  world,  kind, 
true,  just;  but" — Gerald  held  in,  and  showed  how  much 
he  hated  to  make  any  sort  of  reservation — "in  this  they 
have  been  to  blame.  They  bring  growing  girls  to  Italy, 
where,  such  is  their  confidence  in  I  don't  know  what  qual- 
ity supposed  to  be  inherent  and  to  produce  immunity  from 
love  of  Italian  men,  they  never  dream  that  there  might  hap- 
pen to  them  an  Italian  son-in-law." 

He  gave  her  a  moment  to  realize  how  rash  this  was ;  then 
hurried,  as  if  wishing  to  get  through  as  quickly  as  pes- 


112  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

sible  with  the  disagreeable,  if  not  disgraceful,  task  of  crit- 
icizing his  friends  and  of  gossiping: 

''During  the  progress  of  the  affair  Mrs.  Foss  lets  all 
go  on  as  the  little  affairs  and  flirtations  of  her  own  youth 
were  allowed  to  go  on  at  home.  She  likes  her  daughters 
to  be  admired.  It  is  only  proper  they  should  make  con- 
quests, have  beaus.  Leslie  has  had  flirtations  with  Italians 
as  well  as  with  others,  and  come  out  of  them  without  im- 
pairing that  sense  of  humor  which  permits  her  to  see  as 
funny  that  one  should  succumb  to  the  attractions  of  one 
of  those  only  half-understood  men,  who  may  either  be 
playing  a  comedy  of  love  while  in  truth  pursuing  a  for- 
tune, or,  if  in  earnest,  are  rather  alarming,  with  the  hint 
of  jealous  ferocity  in  their  eyes.  With  Mrs.  Foss's  knowl- 
edge, Brenda,  during  a  whole  summer  at  the  seaside,  re- 
ceives Giglioli's  letters,  written  at  first,  or  partly,  in 
English,  which  he  is  learning  with  her  help.  With  this 
excuse  of  English,  it  is  a  correspondence  and  courtship 
dans  toutes  les  regies.  Brenda  is  not  asked  by  an  American 
mother  to  show  her  letters  or  his.  Giglioli,  with  his  tra- 
ditions, could  not  have  imagined  such  a  thing  if  the  par- 
ents were  unwilling  to  receive  him  as  a  suitor.  Brenda 
herself — one  will  never  know  about  Brenda,  how  it  be- 
gan, what  she  thought  or  hoped.  She  is  very  young;  no 
doubt  she  did  hope.  Children  seldom  know  much  about 
their  parents'  means.  She  very  likely  thought  hers  could 
make  her  the  present  of  a  dowry,  as  they  had  made  her 
other  presents.  But  when  she  discovered  their  attitude 
toward  the  whole  matter,  with  dignity  and  delicacy  she  let 
all  be  as  they  desired,  incapable  of  pressing  them  to  tax 
their  resources  to  give  her  a  thing  their  prejudice  is  so 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  113 

strongly  set  against.  They  did  what  they  thought  best, 
and  have  hung  in  doubt  ever  since  as  to  whether  it  was 
best;  for  though  Brenda  gives  her  confidence  to  none  of 
them,  and  they  do  not  press  her  to  give  it,  with  that  re- 
spect for  a  child's  liberty  which  is  also  American,  they 
are  growing  more  and  more  uneasy  with  the  suspicion  that 
it  was  serious  on  her  part,  too.  They  love  her  extraordi- 
narily, and  she  has  always  dearly  loved  them.  They  show 
their  love  by  protecting  her  youth  from  a  step  she  may 
repent.  She  shows  hers  by  being  strong,  poor  love,  and 
trying  not  to  grieve  them  with  the  revelation  of  her  heart. 
And  they  are  making  one  another  wretched/' 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Hawthorne  had  nothing  to  say,  busy 
with  pondering  what  she  had  heard.  "I  don't  see  how, 
if  she  really  loves  this  Italian,  she  could  give  him  up  so 
gracefully,"  she  finally  said. 

**She  has  not  given  him  up,  Mrs.  Hawthorne,"  said 
Gerald.  ''Believe  me,  she  has  not.  She  has  some  plan, 
some  dream,  for  bringing  about  the  good  end  in  time 
without  aid  from  her  parents.  I  am  sure  of  it.  No,  she 
has  not  given  him  up."  He  had  before  him,  vivid  in  mem- 
ory, the  image  of  Brenda  in  the  little  church,  and  was 
looking  at  that,  though  his  eyes  were  on  Mrs.  Hawthorne's 
friendly  and  attentive  face.  "She  is  at  the  wonderful 
hour  of  her  love, ' '  he  said,  ' '  when  the  world  is  transfigured 
and  life  lifted  above  the  every-day  into  regions  of  poetry; 
when  the  simple  fact  of  his  existence  justifies  the  plan  of 
creation,  when  to  wait  a  hundred  years  for  him  would 
seem  no  more  difficult  than  to  wait  a  day,  and  to  perform 
the  labors  of  Hercules  no  more  than  breaking  off  so  many 
roses.     She  is  sure  of  him,  the  immortality  of  his  passion. 


114*  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

as  she  is  sure  of  herself.  So  they  are  above  circum- 
stances, and  nothing  that  friend  or  foe  can  do  should 
trouble  their  essential  serenity." 

*'How  wonderful!"  breathed  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  after  a 
little  silence  in  which  Gerald  had  been  thinking  with  a 
very  sickness  of  sympathy  of  Brenda  and  the  sinister  pro- 
pensity of  the  Fates  for  bringing  to  nothing  the  most  val- 
iant dreams  and  hopes;  and  Mrs.  Hawthorne  had  been 
thinking  entirely  of  Gerald,  whose  own  heart  was  so  much 
more  certainly  revealed  by  what  he  said  than  could  be 
anybody  else's. 

"Unfortunately," — he  turned  abruptly  to  another  part 
of  his  subject, — "he  is  not  of  the  -same  temperament. 
She  has  some  project,  I  imagine,  for  earning  the  money  for 
her  dowry,  poor  child,  by  music,  singing,  painting.  But 
he  does  not  know  her  vows  of  fidelity,  because  her  parents 
did  use  their  authority  so  far  as  gently  to  request  her 
not  to  write  to  him  or  see  him;  and  she  promised,  and 
a  promise  with  Brenda  is  binding.  And  he  has  felt  his 
honor  involved  in  not  writing  or  meeting  her.  But, 
though  separated,  they  have  been  in  the  same  city;  they 
could  hope  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  each  other  now  and  then. 
Heaven  only  knows  how  often  he  has  stood  to  see  her  pass, 
or  watched  her  window,  and  lived  on  such  things  as  un- 
happy lovers  find  to  live  on.  After  all,  the  faith  that  when 
he  dreamed  of  her  she  dreamed  of  him,  that  as  he  kissed 
a  glove  she  kissed  a  silver  button,  was  a  life,  something  to 
go  on  with.  I  dare  say,  too,  he  cherished  the  hope  of  some 
miracle, — it  is  so  natural  to  hope!  .  .  .  But  now  they  are 
sending  her  away,  and  it  seems  to  him  the  black  end  of 
everything. ' ' 
"I  see.    And  what  you  want  is — " 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  115 

**To  be  driven  half  a  world  apart  for  indefinite  periods, 
more  than  probably  forever,  without  one  look,  one  word 
of  leave-taking,  is  truly  too  much.  Granted  that  they  are 
not  to  have  each  otlier,  they  ought  not  to  be  torn  in  two 
like  a  bleeding  body.  Let  them  have  to  remember  a  few 
last  beautiful  moments ! ' ' 

Mrs.  Hawthorne  had  become  pensive.  He  watched  her 
sidewise,  trying  to  divine  what  turn  her  thoughts  were 
taking.     Her  prolonged  silence  made  him  uneasy. 

"It  wouldn't  be  wrong,  you  think?"  she  asked  finally. 
**Mrs.  Foss  wouldn't  be  cross  with  us?" 

"If  it  is  wrong,  my  dear  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  let  it  be 
wrong!"  he  cried  impetuously.  "If  any  one  is  cross,  we 
will  bow  our  heads  meekly — after  having  done  what  we 
regarded  as  merciful.  Let  us  not  permit  a  cruelty  it  was 
in  our  power  to  prevent!" 

But  Mrs.  Hawthorne  continued  to  disquiet  him  by  hesi- 
tating, while  her  face  suggested  the  travels  of  her  thought 
all  around  and  in  and  out  of  the  question  under  considera- 
tion. 

"You  don't  think  it  would  perhaps  be  cruel  to  Brenda?" 
she  laid  before  him  another  difficulty  in  the  way  of  making 
up  her  mind.  "Mightn't  it  just  ruin  the  evening  for  her, 
with  the  painfulness  of  good-bys?  Or,  if  she  doesn't  in 
the  least  expect  him,  the  shock  of  the  surprise?" 

"If  I  know  that  beautiful  girl,  passionate  as  an  Italian 
under  her  American  self-control,  it  will  be  the  blessed 
shock  of  an  answered  prayer.  She  prays  nightly,  never 
doubt  it,  that  Heaven  may  manage  for  her  just  such  a  sur- 
prise. '  * 

He  was  growing  afraid  of  the  calm  common  sense  that 
tried  to  see  the  thing  from  every  side  and  weight  the  mer- 


116  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

its  of  each  person's  point  of  view.  Feeling  it  intolerable 
to  be  refused,  he  suddenly  appealed  to  her  pity,  away  from 
her  justice. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  life  is  so  unkind,  and  to  be  al- 
ways wise  simply  deadly !  A  few  memories  to  treasure  are 
all  the  good  we  finally  have  of  our  miserable  days,  and  to 
catch  at  a  moment  of  gold  without  care  that  it  will  have 
to  be  paid  for  is  the  only  way  to  have  in  our  hands  in  all 
our  lives  anything  but  copper  and  lead;  yes,  dull  lead, 
common  copper. '^  He  covered  his  face  and  pressed  his 
eyes,  in  a  way  he  had  when  the  world  seemed  too  hopeless 
and  baffling;  then  as  suddenly  straightened  up,  remarking 
more  quietly,  "The  Fosses  are  too  wise." 

"They  have  my  sympathy,  I  must  say,  Mr.  Fane," 
Mrs.  Hawthorne  hurriedly  defended  herself  against  being 
moved.  ' '  I  should  be  just  as  much  afraid  as  they  to  have 
my  daughter  marry  a  foreigner." 

"Mrs.  Hawthorne,  you  ought  to  be  afraid  to  have  your 
daughter  marry  anybody."  He  gathered  heat  again  and 
vehemence.  "As  regards  Italians,  we  are  all  one  mass  of 
superstitions.  We  are  always  comparing  our  best  with 
their  bad.  As  a  matter  of  truth,  our  best  and  their  best 
and  the  best  the  world  over  are  one  as  good  as  the  other, 
and  our  worst  can't  be  exceeded  by  anything  Italy  can 
show.  If  you  make  the  difficulty  that  we  are  different,  our 
point  of  view  different,  I  object  that  Brenda's  is  not  so 
different.  The  international  marriages  that  turn  out  well 
make  no  noise,  but  there  are  plenty  of  them.  I  have  seen 
any  number  in  the  ordinary  middle  classes.  No,  parents 
are  twice  as  old  as  their  children;  that  is  the  trouble  and 
always  will  be.  The  older  people  by  prudence  secure  a 
certain  thing,  but  it  's  not  the  thing  youth  wanted.     The 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  117 

older  see  a  certain  thing  as  preferable,  because  they  are 
old;  but  the  young  were  right  for  themselves,  for  a  time, 
at  least,  until  they,  too,  grew  old  and  saw  a  long  peace  and 
comfort  as  superior  to  a  brief  love  and  rapture.  Brenda 
is  not  shallow  or  changeable ;  it  may  be  her  one  chance  of 
happiness  that  her  parents  in  their  anxious  affection  are 
trying  to  remove  her  from,  and  which  she  will  cling  to 
with  every  invisible  fiber  of  her  being  until  she  conquers, 
or  turns  into  a  dismal  old  maid.  Brenda  is  not  like  other 
girls.  Love  is  serious  to  her.  She  never  played  with  it  as 
Leslie  has  always  done,  and  as  American  girls  do,  yes,  in 
IMassachusetts  and  Virginia  alike.  She  is  an  earnest,  sim- 
ple, sincere,  constant  nature,  very  much,  in  fact,  like  him. ' ' 

''You  seem  to  like  him.     Is  he  such  a  fine  man  really?" 

*'I  don^t  know  a  finer,  in  his  way." 

''Good  looking?" 

"Mrs.  Hawthorne,  what  a  frivolous  question!  But  he 
is.  He  is  one  of  the  most  completely  handsome  men  I 
know.     Rather  short,  that  's  all." 

"Oh,  what  a  pity!" 

"But,  if  you  must  insist  on  that  sort  of  symmetry, 
Brenda  is  not  tall.  He  is  a  kind  of  Italian,  more  common 
than  one  thinks,  that  doesn't  get  into  literature,  having 
nothing  exciting,  mysterious,  wicked,  or  even  conspicu- 
ously picturesque  about  him.  After  being  a  good  son, — 
they  are  very  often  good  sons, — he  will  be  a  good  husband 
and  a  good  father,  like  his  own  father  before  him.  He 
is  without  vanity,  while  looking  like  a  square-built,  stocky, 
responsible  Romeo.  Devoted  to  duty,  passionate  for  order, 
absolutely  punctilious  in  matters  of  honor  and  courtesy, 
he  is  a  good  citizen,  a  good  soldier.  He  belongs  to  excel- 
lent people,  I  gathered,  whose  fortune,  once  larger,  is  very 


118  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

small.  They  live  in  the  Abnizzi,  I  think  he  said.  He  is 
the  eldest  son  and  hope  of  the  house.  His  gratitude  to 
them  comes  first  of  all,  he  made  me  understand.  He 
would  be  an  indegno,  unworthy  of  esteem  and  love,  if  that 
were  not  so.  He  had  never  cared  for  pleasures,  he  told 
me ;  even  in  the  time  not  demanded  by  the  service  he  stud- 
ied. He  wished  to  be  useful  to  his  country ;  he  looked  for 
the  advancement  to  be  gained  by  solid  capacity  in  mili- 
tary things.  He  felt  older  than  his  years,  he  said,  from 
being  the  eldest  of  the  family  and  always  carrying  respon- 
sibilities. He  committed  no  follies  of  youth,  had  no  quar- 
rels, made  no  debts.  His  companions  sometimes  laughed 
at  him  for  this  prosaic  seriousness.  But  he  had  friends,  for 
he  is  of  a  manly,  modest  sort.  One  evening  during  Car- 
nival last  year  certain  of  these  friends  dropped  in  on  their 
way  to  a  dance,  a  costume  party  at  the  house  of  Americans, 
and  seeing  him  so  absorbed  by  duties  and  studies,  thought 
it  a  lark  to  tempt  him  from  these  and  take  him  along. 
And  he,  to  astonish  them  for  once,  he  says,  let  it  happen, 
they  assuring  him  that  he  would  be  well  received  if  pre- 
sented as  their  friend.  One  of  them  had  on  two  costumes, 
one  on  top  of  the  other,  of  which  he  lent  him  one,  a  monk's 
frock  and  cowl.  So  they  went.  At  the  ball  was  Brenda 
as  the  Snow-queen.  And  the  fatal  thing  happened  at 
very  first  sight  of  her.  It  is  a  repetition  of  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  as  you  see.  He  had  shunned  women  as  the  rivals 
of  duty  and  work.  He  believes  his  instantaneous  adora- 
tion owing  to  the  fact  that  Brenda  so  far  surpassed  all  he 
had  ever  known, — a  being  entirely  formed  of  light  and 
snow  and  fragrance.  ...  I  am  using  his  words.  Her  very 
name  is  sweet  to  Italian  lips.  He  permitted  himself  the 
dreams   of   other  men.     He   permitted   himself   to   hope. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  119 

And  then  !  .  .  .  These  things  he  told  me  with  actual  tears  in 
the  finest  dark  eyes  I  have  perhaps  ever  seen,  and  with- 
out seeming  any  the  less  manly  for  them.  He  told  me, 
and  I  believed  him.  He  came  to  me,  poor  fellow,  because 
it  was  the  nearest  he  could  come  to  Brenda,  and  he  trusted, 
I  suppose,  that  I  would  tell  her  he  had  been.  It  was  a 
way  of  sending  her  a  message.  He  talked  more  than  half 
the  night,  walking  the  floor,  then  throwing  himself  into  a 
chair  and  grasping  his  head.  I  can't*  tell  you  all  he  said, 
but  it  filled  me  with  pity  and  respect.  It  made  me  his 
friend." 

Mrs.  Hawthorne  looked  soft  and  sympathetic,  but  far 
away,  and  when  he  stopped  did  not  speak,  engrossed,  it 
was  to  be  hoped,  by  the  story  just  told. 

He  continued,  though  discouraged: 

''He  wanted  to  know  if  I  thought  he  would  be  guilty 
of  an  unpardonable  breach  should  he  ask  permission  to 
write  her  one  letter  before  she  left.  This  parting  without 
farewell  is  the  last  bitter  touch  to  his  tragedy.  Brenda, 
when  it  had  been  decided  that  she  should  leave,  sent  word 
to  him  by  that  little  pianist  who  comes  here.  Again 
through  the  same  channel  he  received  word  that  the  day 
of  departure  was  fixed.  Can  you  think  what  it  means, 
Mrs.  Hawthorne?  Have  you  in  your  experience  or  imagi- 
nation the  wherewith  to  form  any  conception,  dear  IMrs. 
Hawthorne,  of  what  it  means?  The  day  of  departure 
fixed!  The  day  of  parting!  Do  you  realize?  No  more 
sight  or  sound  of  each  other!  The  end!  The  sea  be- 
tween! Silence!  And  it  is  to  befall  on  Saturday  of  this 
week,  and  we  are  at  Wednesday!" 

''All  right,  Mr.  Fane;  bring  him!"  she  said  in  haste. 
"You've  made  me  want  to  cry.     I  mustn't  let  myself 


1^0  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

cry;  it  makes  my  nose  red.  What  did  you  say  his  name 
is?'^ 

^^Giglioli." 

"Spell  it.  Gig — no,  it  's  no  use.  What  's  the  other 
part  of  his  name?" 

''Manlio." 

*'That  's  a  little  better.  I  guess  he  '11  have  to  be  Man- 
lio  to  me.  Bring  him  along,  whatever  happens,  and  then 
let  's  pray  hard  to  have  everything  happen  right." 

Not  much  later  on  the  same  day  Mrs.  Hawthorne's 
brougham  might  have  been  seen  climbing  Viale  dei  Colli, 
with  the  lady  inside,  alone,  engaged  in  meditation. 

**It  would  be  a  pity,"  she  was  thinking,  as  she  alighted 
before  Villa  Foss,  ''that  a  little  matter  of  eight  thousand 
dollars  should  stand  in  the  way  of  perfect  bliss ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SO  many  forces  had  been  enlisted,  into  so  many  hands 
the  white  card  given,  to  make  Mrs.  Hawthorne's 
ball  a  success,  that  it  could  hardly  fail  to  be  some- 
what splendid.  On  a  platform  raised  in  one  corner  of  the 
ball-room  sat  the  little  orchestra  assembled  and  conducted 
by  Signor  Ceccherelli,  who,  from  his  mien,  might  have 
been  the  creator  of  these  musicians  and  originator  of  all 
music. 

Charlie  Hunt  was  floor-master,  and  busy  enough.  An- 
other might  perhaps  have  done  as  much  and  not  appeared 
so  busy.  The  cotillion  especially  gave  him  a  great  deal 
to  do.  Everybody  understood  that  he  had  planned  all  the 
figures  and  bought  the  favors.  Some  received  an  impres- 
sion that  the  ball  was  entirely  managed  by  him,  who  was 
such  a  very  great  friend  of  the  hostess's.  Some  even  car- 
ried home  an  idea  that  the  hostess  never  did  anything  with- 
out consulting  him,  and  more  often  than  not  besought  him 
to  do  it  for  her. 

This  sounds  cruder  than  it  actually  was.  Charlie  was 
looking  most  handsome  and  high-bred.  Animation  shone 
from  his  eyes,  his  teeth,  his  skin,  over  which  he  now  and 
then  swept  a  fine  white  silk  handkerchief.  He  danced  de- 
votedly every  minute  during  which  he  was  not  engaged 
in  making  others  dance.  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  gazing  after 
him  with  a  benignant  smile,  was  truly  grateful  to  him  for 
putting  into  her  party  so  much  *'go."     It  was  his  atmos- 

121 


122  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

phere  rather  than  his  words — though  he  did  drop  words, 
but  not  many  or  really  in  bad  taste — that  made  him  appear 
the  one  indispensable  person  in  the  house. 

Mrs.  Foss  stood  near  the  central  door  with  Mrs.  Haw- 
thorne, receiving.  She  had  not  omitted  from  her  list  one 
acquaintance  in  Florence  of  the  suitable  class.  Every- 
body was  there;  the  style  of  invitation-card  sent  had  sug- 
gested a  grand  occasion. 

All  the  persons  she  had  seen  at  the  Fosses  on  the  first 
Friday  evening  at  their  house  Mrs.  Hawthorne  saw  again, 
and  many  more.  Balm  de  Breze,  with  a  gallantry  of  old 
style,  bent  his  black-lacquer  mustache  over  her  glove.  The 
dark  Landini  pressed  her  hand  with  a  pinch  the  warmth 
of  which  pricked  her  attention,  and  she  found  his  eyes  fixed 
on  her  with  more  the  air  of  seeing  her  than  is  common  at 
a  first  meeting. 

Suddenly  her  heart  thumped  like  a  school -girl's.  Ger- 
ald was  coming,  and  with  him  an  officer  who  must  surely 
be  Manlio.  She  tried  to  keep  down  her  emotion,  but  the 
pink  of  her  face  deepened,  a  trembling  seized  her  smile. 

The  Italian  was  as  white  as  paper,  his  mustache  and 
brows  made  spots  of  ink  on  it;  his  eyes  were  as  deep  and 
still  as  wells  in  the  night.  She  could  hardly  doubt  that  his 
heart  was  in  a  tumult,  but  he  spoke  without  disaster  to  his 
voice,  thanking  her  in  a  formal  phrase.  She  perceived, 
from  a  distinct  advantage  over  him  in  height,  how  fault- 
lessly handsome  he  was  in  a  quiet,  unmagnetic  way.  Never 
had  she  seen  anything  to  equal  the  whiteness  of  his  teeth 
except  her  pearls  in  their  black  velvet  case. 

After  having  paid  his  duty  to  her,  he  remained  for  some 
minutes  speaking  with  Mrs.  Foss,  who  appeared  as  kind, 
while  he  appeared  as  calm  and  natural,  as  if  time  had 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  123 

moved  back,  and  they  were  still  at  last  spring  and  the  be- 
ginning of  his  visits.  Of  all  concerned  Aurora  was  the 
least  collected. 

*'I  can't  help  it!"  she  murmured  to  Gerald,  while  the 
other  two  were  talking  together.  ''I  'm  all  of  a  tremble. 
I  feel  as  if  I  were  Brenda;  and  at  the  same  time  I  feel  as 
if  I  were  him — or  he." 

Mrs.  Foss  turned  to  them  to  say  she  believed  everybody 
had  arrived,  and  with  Giglioli  moved  away  from  the  door. 
Gerald  asked  Mrs.  Hawthorne  if  they  should  waltz,  but 
she  refused,  because  she  ought  to  be  looking  after  the  peo- 
ple who  were  not  dancing  and  seeing  that  every  one  had 
a  good  time.  She  should  dance  only  once  that  evening,  she 
told  him,  and  it  should  be  with  Mr.  Foss,  who  had  prom- 
ised to  dance  at  her  party  if  she  would  promise  to  dance 
with  him. 

Mr.  Foss  was  seen  approaching,  and  ]\Irs.  Hawthorne 
smiled  and  sparkled  in  anticipation  of  the  jokes  they  would 
exchange  on  her  fairy  weight  and  his  youthful  limberness. 

Gerald  sent  his  eyes  around  the  room  to  see  if  any  one 
were  free  whom  it  would  be  a  sort  of  duty  to  ask  to  dance. 
He  did  not  look  for  pleasure  from  dancing,  the  less  so  that 
Charlie  Hunt,  on  the  perpetual  jump,  and  dancing  with  a 
perfection  almost  unmanly,  had  brought  the  exercise  into 
temporary  discredit  with  him.  Miss  Madison  was  dancing. 
Miss  Seymour  was  dancing,  Leslie  was  dancing,  Brenda — 
his  eyes  were  unable  to  find.  In  a  doorway,  and  not  quite 
as  festive  in  looks  as  the  majority,  which  gave  to  the  room 
the  effect  of  an  animated  flower-bed,  he  perceived  a  figure 
in  snuff-brown  silk,  just  in  front  of  which,  soberly  watch- 
ing the  dancers,  was  a  little  girl  in  a  short  dress  of  em- 
broidered white,  a  blue  hair-ribbon  and  blue  enamel  locket. 


lU  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

At  once  dropping  his  search  for  a  partner,  Gerald  went  to 
join  this  pair,  thinking,  as  he  approached,  that  Lily  with- 
out her  spectacles  was  beginning  to  have  a  look  of  Brenda, 
— a  Brenda  with  less  beauty,  but  more  originality ;  more — 
what  could  one  call  it  ? — geniality,  perhaps. 

*'0h,  Gerald!" — the  little  girl  caught  his  hand  with- 
out ceasing  for  more  than  a  second  to  watch  the  ball-room 
floor, — ''I  have  promised  to  go  home  willingly  at  ten 
o'clock!"     It  was  spoken  in  a  gentle  wail. 

''My  child,"  said  Fraulein,  ''you  must  begin  to  prepare, 
for  I  fear  it  cannot  be  far  from  ten." 

"Oh,  Fraulein,  don't  keep  talking  about  it!     Please!" 

"When  you  leave  this  pleasure,  Lili,  remember,  there 
will  be  still  that  other  pleasure  of  the  long  ride  home  in 
the  night  and  the  moonlight." 

"Yes."  Lily,  glad  again,  turned  wholly  to  Gerald,  the 
music  having  stopped.  "Mrs.  Hawthorne  told  mother  that 
if  she  would  let  me  come  I  should  be  taken  home  in  her  own 
carriage,  with  all  the  furs  around  us  and  a  hot  water-box 
for  our  feet,  so  that  we  never  could  catch  cold.  Was  n  't  it 
sweet  of  her  ?  And  we  've  both  already  had  ices  and  cakes, 
before  anybody  else,  because  she  said  we  must.  Don't  you 
think  she  's  sweet,  Gerald  ? ' ' 

' '  Sweet  as  honey, ' '  he  said. 

"Oh,  Gerald," — Lily's  tone  was  fairly  lamentable, — ■ 
"have  you  seen  the  baskets  of  favors  that  are  going  to  be 
given  away  by  and  by?  There  are  roses  of  red  silk,  and 
lilies  of  white  velvet,  and  chocolate  cigars,  and  fans,  and 
bonbonnieres,  and  silver  bangles !  Then  funny  ones  of  lit- 
tle monkeys  and  ducks  and  things.  And  I  have  to  go  home 
willingly,  cheerfully,  promptly,  at  ten  o'clock!" 

"Lily,  if  any  lady  is  so  good  and  so  misguided  as  to 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  125 

honor  me  with  a  favor,  I  will  bring  it  to  you  in  my  pocket 
to-morrow  or  soon  after,  I  promise." 

"What  hour  is  it,  Herr  Fane?"  asked  Fraulein  over 
Lily's  head. 

Gerald  drew  out  his  watch  and  hesitated,  sincerely  sorry. 

''To  be  exact,  it  is  three  minutes  and  three  quarters  to 
ten,"  he  said. 

Lily's  mouth  dropped  open,  and  out  of  the  small  dark 
hollow  one  could  fear  for  a  second  that  a  cry  of  protest  or 
revolt  might  come;  but  the  very  next  moment  it  was  seen 
that  Lily  had  returned  to  be  the  best  child  in  the  world 
and  the  most  honorable. 

' '  Good  night,  Gerald  ! ' '  she  said,  with  a  wistfully  willing, 
cheerful,  ready  face.     ''You  won't  forget?" 

He  was  left  in  the  oval  room,  and  as  the  dancers  who  had 
come  in  to  occupy  its  seats  seemed  all  to  be  in  pairs,  he  re- 
mained aloof.  He  took  the  occasion  to  have  a  look  at  the 
panels,  which  he  had  not  before  seen,  the  tapestries,  which 
were  not  tapestries,  but  paintings  on  rep.  He  remembered 
— the  Fountain  of  Love,  not  Biblical. 

The  fountain,  surely  enough,  spouted  from  a  marble 
dolphin  squeezed  in  the  chubby  arms  of  a  marble  Love, 
and  was  four  times  repeated,  at  different  hours  of  the  day 
and  seasons  of  the  year.  In  spring,  at  dawn,  a  maiden 
filled  her  cup  at  it.  At  noon,  in  summer,  the  same  maiden 
and  a  youth  drank  from  it  with  cheeks  close  together.  In 
autumn,  at  sunset,  the  maiden,  sadder  of  countenance, 
stared  at  the  fountain,  visibly  wrapped  in  memories.  In 
winter  the  fountain  stood  solitary  and  frozen,  Cupid  had 
a  hood  of  snow,  the  purplish  twilight  landscape  was 
drowned  in  melancholy. 

Gerald's  mind  made  an  excursion  from  the  things  before 


126  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

him  to  the  studio  where  those  facile  works  of  art  had  been 
produced.  The  place  was  imaginary,  and  the  artist  not 
altogether  clear,  but  the  features  of  the  second  figure  which 
he  saw,  the  visitor  at  the  studio,  were  well-known  to  him, 
and  the  sentiments  of  the  artist  receiving  the  order  to  treat 
a  subject  in  four  large  panels  for  a  rich  forestiera  not 
difficult  to  estimate. 

The  ball  had  been  raging,  if  one  may  so  express  it,  for 
several  hours,  the  feast  was  at  its  height,  when  Aurora, 
confused  with  the  richness  and  multiplicity  of  her  impres- 
sions, and  aware  of  a  happy  fatigue,  withdrew  from  her 
guests  to  be  for  a  few  minutes  just  a  quiet  looker-on.  She 
chose  as  her  retreat  a  spot  at  the  curve  of  the  stairs,  where 
she  felt  herself  in  the  midst  of  everything  and  yet  isolated. 
Her  back  was  toward  the  persons  going  up  and  down ;  she 
leaned  on  the  sloping  balustrade,  and  breathed  and  rested 
and  hoped  no  one  would  notice  her  for  a  little  while,  all 
being  delightfully  engaged. 

She  could  see  a  little  way  into  the  ball-room,  where  cer- 
tain younger  couples,  mad  for  dancing,  were  making  the 
most  of  the  time  when  the  floor  was  relatively  empty,  the 
supper-room  being  proportionately  full.  Supper  over,  the 
cotillion  would  begin.  She  could  see  Leslie,  in  Nile-green 
crape,  eating  an  ice  out  in  the  hall  with  that  American 
boy,  the  singer,  whose  conceit,  by  his  looks,  had  not  yet 
been  made  to  totter.  She  could  hear  the  merry  sound  of 
spoons  and  glasses,  and  knew  what  good  things  were  being 
consumed.  All  the  house  was  involved  in  festivity,  and 
resounding  with  it.  In  the  up-stairs  sitting-room  were 
card-tables.  In  the  improvised  conservatory  opposite  one 
large  dim  lantern  glowed  softly  amid  palms  and  flowers. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  127 

To  Aurora  every  goose  present  that  evening  was  a  swan. 
There  were  frumpy  dresses  more  than  a  few, — there  always 
are, — and  there  was  the  usual  proportion  of  plain  girls  and 
uninteresting  men,  but  she  did  not  see  those.  She  saw  a 
crowd  more  brilliant  and  beautiful  and  fit  to  be  loved  than 
had  ever  before  been  assembled  beneath  one  roof.  Her 
heart  felt  very  large,  very  soft,  very  light. 

All  evening  it  had  seemed  to  her  rather  as  if  she  walked 
in  a  dream.  More  than  ever  now,  as  she  stopped  to  take 
account  of  all  the  wonderfulness  surrounding  her,  it  felt 
to  her  like  a  dream;  so  that  she  said  to  herself,  ''This  is  I, 
Nell — is  it  possible?     Is  it  possible  that  this  is  I — Nell?" 

And  no  doubt  because  she  had  been  too  excitedly  happy 
and  was  tired,  and  the  time  had  come  for  some  degree  of 
reaction,  her  joy  fell,  withered  like  a  child's  collapsing  pink 
balloon,  when,  contrasting  the  present  with  the  past  for 
the  sake  of  seeing  the  things  before  her  as  more  rarely  full 
of  wonder  and  charm,  she  saw  those  other  things.  Mem- 
ories she  did  not  willingly  call  up  rose  of  themselves,  and 
forced  her  to  give  them  her  attention  in  the  midst  of  that 
scene  of  flowers,  light,  music.  The  brightness,  the  flavor, 
went  out  of  these  as  if  under  an  unkind  magic. 

"It  's  a  wonder,"  she  thought,  "that  I  can  ever  be  as 
happy  as  I  am.  I  do  wonder  at  myself  how  I  can  do  it  to 
rejoice." 

But  the  next  minute  she  was  smiling  again,  sweetly, 
heart-wholly,  forgetfully.  She  had  caught  sight  of  Gerald 
looking  at  her  as  if  about  to  approach. 

"Who  are  you  going  to  dance  the  cotillion  with?"  she 
asked  gaily. 

"You,  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  with  your  kind  consent." 

"No,  I  couldn't  do  it.     I  only  dance  a  little  bit,  just 


1^8  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

what  Estelle  has  taught  me  since  we  've  been  here.  I  don 't 
keep  step  very  well;  I  walk  all  over  my  partner's  feet. 
Besides,  it  would  n  't  do,  because  I  've  already  refused  to 
dance  with  Mr.  Landini." 

*  *  Sit  it  out  with  me,  then,  I  implore  you,  if  you  positively 
do  not  wish  to  dance." 

"Oh,  but  you  must  dance!  I  want  you  to.  I  want  to 
behold  you  all  stuck  over  with  favors. ' ' 

' '  It  's  true  that  I  must  have  a  few  favors  for  Lily ;  but 
couldn't  a  good  fairy  arrange  it,  and  then  we  let  the  others 
heat  themselves  while  we  keep  cool  and  rest?  I  feared  a 
moment  ago  that  you  were  feeling  tired,  Mrs.  Hawthorne." 

"Look!"  she  whispered,  interrupting  him. 

He  imperceptibly  turned  in  the  direction  of  her  stolen 
glance.  Two  figures  were  ascending  the  opposite  flight  of 
stairs,  looking  at  each  other  while  they  inaudibly  talked: 
Brenda,  in  filmy  white  diversified  by  a  thread  of  silver; 
Manlio,  carrying  over  his  arm,  and  in  his  absorption  let- 
ting trail  a  little,  a  white  scarf  beautiful  with  silver  em- 
broideries; in  his  hand  a  white  pearl  fan.  Brenda 's  face 
was  angelic,  nothing  less.  When  the  young  and  rose-lipped 
cherubim  are  full  of  celestial  sensations  and  adoring,  eter- 
nal thoughts,  they  must  look  as  Brenda  did  at  that  moment. 
Manlio 's  head  was  so  turned  that  his  night-black  hair  alone 
was  presented  to  our  friends.  Slowly  the  pair  mounted 
and  was  lost  to  sight. 

Neither  Gerald  nor  Mrs.  Hawthorne  made  any  comment. 
Gerald,  after  a  silence,  spoke  of  Lily's  increasing  resem- 
blance to  her  sister.  Mrs.  Hawthorne  was  reminded  that 
they  must  go  to  select  some  favors  for  Lily,  and  led  the 
way. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  129 

They  sat  together  through  the  cotillion,  and  Gerald,  be- 
cause he  had  seen  the  shadow  of  sadness  on  Mrs.  Haw- 
thorne's face,  tried  more  than  usual  to  be  a  sympathetic 
companion,  easy  to  talk  to,  easy  to  get  on  with.  He  was 
always  quick  to  see  such  things. 

No  trace  of  it  remained.  Her  dimples  were  in  full  play, 
but  he  found  it  according  to  his  humor  to  continue  uncrit- 
ical, inexpressively  tender,  toward  this  big,  bonny  child 
who  never  curbed  the  expression  of  a  complete  kindness 
toward  himself. 

More  interesting  to  them  than  any  other  dancers  were 
naturally  Brenda  and  Manlio,  partners  for  the  cotillion. 
Certainly  the  plot  for  giving  those  two  a  few  beautiful  last 
hours  together  was  proving  a  success.  Brenda  was  calmly, 
collectedly  luminous;  Manlio,  uplifted  to  the  point  of  not 
quite  knowing  what  he  did.  Radiant  and  desperate,  he 
looked  to  Gerald,  who  found  his  state  explained  by  the 
facts  as  he  knew  them. 

''Poor  things!  Poor  dears!"  he  thought,  with  the  cold 
to-morrow  in  view,  yet  retained  his  conviction  of  having 
done  the  unhappy  lovers  on  the  whole  a  good  turn. 

He  had  been  glad  to  find  the  Fosses  sharing  his  point 
of  view  that  to  forbid  Giglioli  a  sight  of  Brenda  before 
the  long  parting  would  have  been  unnecessarily  cruel. 
Mrs.  Hawthorne,  it  seemed  to  him,  had  lost  sight  of  what 
was  to  follow.  She  was  exclusively  delighted  with  their 
joy  of  the  evening,  she  gave  no  thought  to  their  misery 
next  day.  It  was  amazing  to  him,  the  extent  to  which  she 
had  forgotten. 

So  he  said  aloud,  ' '  Poor  things !  Poor  dears ! ' '  and  dis- 
covered that  it  was  not  forgetfulness  exactly  in  Mrs.  Haw- 


130  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

thorne,  but  that  general  optimism  which  insists  on  believ- 
ing in  a  loophole  of  possibility  through  which  things  can 
slip  and  somehow  turn  out  right  after  all. 

The  party  was  over.  The  musicians  had  laid  their  in- 
struments in  coffin-like  black  boxes  and  were  getting  into 
their  overcoats.  The  candles  were  burned  to  the  end,  the 
flowers  looked  tired,  the  place  all  at  once  amazingly  empty. 
The  last  half  dozen  people  were  standing  and  laughing 
with  Mrs.  Hawthorne  and  Miss  Madison  around  Percy 
Lavin  while  he  told  a  final  good  story  when  one  of  the 
guests  who  had  departed  some  time  before  returned. 

Mrs.  Hawthorne  caught  sight  of  the  figure  in  closed  coat, 
tall  hat,  and  white  silk  muffler  as  soon  as  it  entered  the 
house,  for  the  group  of  laughers  stood  near  the  ball-room 
door,  and  this  was  only  separated  from  the  inner  house 
door  by  the  wide  hall.  Without  waiting  for  the  end  of 
the  comic  story  Mrs.  Hawthorne  hurried  to  the  guest,  whose 
reason  for  returning  she  wished  to  know,  though  it  so  easily 
might  have  been  only  his  forgotten  cane. 

That  it  was  nothing  of  the  kind  she  at  once  perceived. 
He  looked  upset. 

"May  I  speak  with  you  a  moment?"  he  asked  at  once. 

They  stepped  into  the  nearest  room,  still  brightly  lighted, 
but  deserted. 

''What  's  the  matter?"  she  inquired,  prepared  by  his 
face  for  news  of  trouble. 

"Mrs.  Hawthorne,  we  Ve  done  it!"  said  Gerald.  "Gi- 
glioli  tells  me  that  he  's  giving  up  the  army,  and  Brenda  has 
promised  to  marry  him ! "  He  was  on  the  verge  of  laugh- 
ing hysterically. 

"  Oh ! "    Mrs.  Hawthorne  paused  to  watch  him,  and  won- 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  131 

der  why  they  should  not  without  further  to-do  rejoice  and 
triumph.     "Well?     What  's  wrong  with  that?" 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  it  's  deadly!"  he  exclaimed  with 
conviction.  "If  it  were  a  simple  solution,  why  shouldn't 
it  have  been  suggested  before  ? ' ' 

"It  did  suggest  itself  to  me,  in  the  quiet  of  my  inside, 
you  know." 

"But  you,  dear  lady,  can't  be  supposed  to  understand. 
Oh,  it  's  either  too,  too  beautiful,  or  else  too,  too  bad ! 
And  in  this  dear  world  of  ours  the  probability  is  that  it  's 
too  bad.  He  was  taken  off  his  feet  by  his  emotion;  he 
offered  her  what  he  will  feel  later  he  had  no  right  to  offer — 
a  good  deal  more  than  his  life.  But  it  shows,  doesn't  it, 
that  he  does  immensely  love  her?  To  throw  into  the  bal- 
ance everything — his  career,  his  family,  his  country — and 
offer  them  up  !     To  cut  his  throat  for  a  kiss." 

"You  're  quite  right;  I  can't  understand,"  she  hurried 
in.  "What  makes  you  say  'cut  his  throat'?  Couldn't 
he  go  into  some  other  business  just  as  well  as  the  army?" 

"All  in  the  world  he  's  fitted  for  is  the  army.  Do  you 
see  that  beautiful  fellow  going  to  America,  for  instance,  and 
earning  a  living  as  a  teacher  of  Italian,  or  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  some  tobacco  interest?  There  is  no  way  of 
earning  a  proper  living  over  here,  you  know.  Oh,  I  'm 
afraid  he  will  feel,  when  he  wakes  up,  like  a  deserter 
toward  his  country  and  an  ingrate  toward  his  family  and 
even  toward  Brenda  like  a  misguider  of  her  youth. ' ' 

"But,  look  here,  isn't  there  a  chance  that  having  each 
other  will  make  up  to  them  for  everything  else  ? ' ' 

"That  of  course  was  their  sentiment  at  the  moment  of 
doing  it.  We  did  the  work  so  well,  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  that 
their  passion,  raised  to  a  beautiful  madness,  would  make 


132  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

them  see  anything  as  possible  to  be  done  so  long  as  it  gave 
them  to  each  other,  obviated  the  horrible  necessity  to 
part.  Oh,  it  is  touching,  but  dreadful!  What  were  we 
dreaming?  The  thing  I  so  greatly  fear  is  that  when  he 
comes  to  himself  he  will  feel  dishonored,  and  Italians  do  not 
bear  that  easily,  if  at  all." 

' '  Now,  see  here,  don 't  you  go  imagining  things  and  worry. 
And  don 't  you  let  that  young  man  worry.  He  is  n  't  leav- 
ing the  army  to-morrow  or  the  day  after,  is  he  T ' 

''No.  In  the  natural  course  of  things,  I  suppose,  it  will 
take  some  time." 

"Well,  I  don't  at  all  relish,  myself,  the  idea  of  seeing 
that  beautiful  fellow,  as  you  say,  in  every-day  clothes — the 
sort  they  wear  over  here — after  seeing  him  all  glorious  in 
silver  braid  and  stars.  No.  I  just  can't  bear  to  think  of 
him  giving  them  up.  At  the  same  time  I  don't  agree  with 
you  that  he  had  better  have  given  up  his  girl  than  them. 
And  I  don 't  believe  she  will  mind  about  his  clothes  one  way 
or  the  other." 

*'But  there  is  his  family,  a  thousand  obligations — he 
spoke  of  them  himself." 

''Perhaps  the  Fosses,  now  this  has  happened  and  they 
see  how  much  in  earnest  the  blessed  creatures  are,  will  sell 
some  of  their  stock  in  California  gold-mines  and  afford  the 
dowry  you  spoke  of." 

"But  Giglioli  will  blush  at  this  forcing  of  their  hand." 

"Now,  see  here,  you  keep  that  young  man  cool.  He 
has  n  't  done  anything  to  be  ashamed  of.  Brenda  knows 
her  own  mind,  and  I  don't  believe  her  father  and  mother 
would  stand  in  the  way  of  her  marrying  a  tramp  if  he  was 
honest  and  her  heart  set  on  him.     You  tell  that  young  man, 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  133 

in  your  own  way,  to  sit  tight  and  put  his  trust  in  the 
Lord." 

Gerald's  nervous  laughter  for  a  moment  got  the  better 
of  him.  He  covered  his  face  to  check  it,  then,  tearing  away 
his  hands,  made  the  gesture  of  releasing  a  pack  of  tugging 
hounds  too  strong  for  him  to  hold.  Let  them  be  off  and  at 
the  devil! 

*'I  didn't  come  here  looking  for  comfort,  dear  Mrs. 
Hawthorne.  Your  optimism  is  constitutional,  you  know, 
rather  than  enlightened.  I  merely  came  to  tell  my  accom- 
plice the  result  of  our  meddling  with  destiny.  *  Accom- 
plice' is  a  manner  of  speaking.  Don't  suppose  I  forget 
that  I  alone  am  to  blame.  Good  night.  I  must  go  back  to 
him  where  I  left  him,  with  his  head  among  the  stars  and 
clouds,  and  his  feet  perhaps  beginning  to  l)urn  already 
with  the  heat  of  the  nether  fire.  As  you  say,  'let  's  be 
cheerful,  let  's  hope  for  the  best ! '    Ha ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  IX 

BRENDA,  reaching  home  after  the  ball,  had  asked 
her  parents  to  hear  a  thing  she  must  tell  them, 
and,  very  pale,  informed  them  of  the  manner  in 
which  she  had  taken  the  direction  of  her  life  into  her  own 
hands.  At  the  sight  of  their  faces  something  had  melted 
within  her;  she  had  trusted  to  them  at  last  all  that  was 
in  her  heart,  so  that  father  and  mother,  greatly  moved, 
felt  as  if  they  had  found  their  child  again  rather  than  lost 
her.  At  the  almost  incredible  spectacle  of  tears  in  her 
father's  eyes  Brenda  had  crept  into  his  arms,  against  his 
breast,  and  lain  there  so  still,  so  silent,  that  it  seemed  un- 
natural.    They  perceived  that  she  had  fainted. 

She  left  for  America  on  the  date  that  had  been  set, 
but  a  term  was  fixed  for  her  visit;  April  was  to  see  her 
back  in  Florence. 

Her  engagement  was  not  announced.  Mr.  Foss,  talking 
of  it  with  his  wife,  expressed  liking  and  respect  for  their 
prospective  son-in-law.  His  confidence  in  the  man  had 
been  increased  by  an  action  that  seemed  to  him  quite  in  the 
American  spirit.  No  doubt  Giglioli  would  prove  a  good 
business  man,  just  as  he  had  been  a  good  soldier,  the  chief 
requisites  in  all  walks  of  life  being  a  clear  head,  a  heart  in 
its  place,  and  the  will  to  work. 

Mrs.  Foss  was  secretly  unhappy  during  these  conversa- 
tions. The  model  wife  had  never  before  kept  anything 
from  her  husband  nor  taken  any  step  without  his  sanction, 

134 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  135 

and  she  was  ashamed  now  of  the  duplicity  she  was  forced 
to  practice.  She  strengthened  herself  by  the  assurance 
that  in  so  doing  she  was  really  sparing  Jerome,  saving  him 
possible  moments  of  indecision,  or  conflict  with  himself. 
She  was  saving  Brenda  from  the  same  troubles,  if  not 
worse :  such  perhaps  as  seeing  her  brilliant  hero  made  into 
an  unsuccessful  struggle-for-lifer.  She,  the  mother,  would 
swallow  by  her  single  self  all  the  mental  discomforts  that 
might  have  been  the  general  portion,  and,  nobody  being  any 
the  wiser,  shoulder  hardily  for  their  sakes  the  conscious- 
ness of  an  obligation  which  might  to  the  others  have 
poisoned  a  gift,  if  not  made  it  impossible  to  accept.  No 
member  of  her  family,  it  seemed  to  Mrs.  Foss,  knew  quite 
as  well  as  she  how  simple,  native,  and  without  self-conceit 
was  Aurora  Hawthorne's  generosity;  so  that  taking  from 
her  was  hardly  different,  in  a  sense,  from  giving  her  some- 
thing. You  did  not  have  to  pay  with  gratitude.  You 
paid,  first  and  last  and  all  the  time,  with  affection. 

Gerald,  who  had  seen  as  beset  with  difficulty  the  role  of 
friend  which  he  might  be  called  upon  to  play,  heard  with 
relief  that  Giglioli  had  obtained  leave  of  absence  and  gone 
to  see  his  family.  With  Brenda  over  the  seas,  and  Manlio 
in  the  Abruzzi,  the  subject  of  their  attachment  and  future 
could  fall  a  little  into  the  background,  crowded  out  by  the 
nearer  things. 

The  fact  became  of  some  consequence  to  Gerald  that  in 
his  relation  to  Mrs.  Hawthorne  he  was  so  largely  a  taker. 
He  did  not  count  as  any  return  for  her  hospitalities  the 
time  he  gave  to  sight-seeing  with  her  and  her  friend ;  he  was 
modest  with  regard  to  his  own  contributions. 

He  had  in  truth  not  desired  to  fall  into  Mrs.   Haw- 


136  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

thorne's  debt.  He  would  have  liked  best  to  keep  away 
from  her;  but  fate,  likewise  character,  set  snares  for  him. 
After  he  had  stayed  away  for  a  certain  length  of  time,  the 
thought  would  rise  to  trouble  him,  ^'She  will  feel  hurt," 
and  all  against  the  voice  of  good  sense,  such  a  reason  as 
that  had  power  with  Gerald.  He  would  then  call,  and  her 
welcome  would  be  so  kind,  her  heartiness  so  warming,  that 
he  would  stay  to  dinner,  and  promise  to  go  somewhere  with 
them  on  the  following  day,  after  which  he  would  dine  with 
them  again. 

So  now  the  gentlemanly  wish  defined  itself  in  him  to 
show  by  some  token  that  he  did  not  take  favors  all  as  a 
matter  of  course. 

He  would  have  liked  to  make  her  an  offering  a  little  ex- 
quisite, a  little  rare,  which  she  might  recognize  as  possess- 
ing these  points  and  accordingly  prize.  To  bestow  any- 
thing concrete  would  have  been  folly.  A  few  possessions  he 
had  which  he  would  have  thought  worthy  of  the  accept- 
ance of  queens:  a  tear  phial  of  true  Roman  glass,  a  Jap- 
anese print  or  two,  a  few  coins  that  were  old  already  when 
Christ  was  young.  And  he  would  have  parted  with  any 
one  of  these  treasures  to  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  though  not 
wholly  without  a  pang :  first,  because  he  liked  her,  and  then 
because  he  had  eaten  as  it  seemed  to  him  a  good  deal  of  her 
bread  and  syrup.  But  she  would  not  have  cared  for  these 
things;  while  bereaving  himself,  he  would  have  enriched 
her  not  at  all. 

The  duty  of  doing  something  for  Mrs.  Hawthorne's 
pleasure  was  felt  even  by  Charlie  Hunt,  who  took  her  to  a 
concert.  When  Gerald  heard  of  it,  he  searched  more  per- 
sistently and,  fate  aiding,  found  something  which  might 
give  the  lady  amusement,  he  thought,  and  would  certainly 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  137 

afford  an  opportunity  that  would  hardly  have  come  her 
way  without  his  good  offices. 

The  morning  mail  brought  him  a  note  relating  to  his 
project;  he  did  not  wait  for  afternoon  to  communicate  its 
contents. 

It  was  eleven  when  he  rang  at  Mrs.  Hawthorne's  door. 
He  had  hardly  finished  asking  the  servant  whether  the 
signora  were  at  home  when  he  heard  her  voice  up-stairs, 
singing  behind  closed  doors. 

She  had  said  so  many  times,  when  he  went  through  the 
formality  of  having  himself  announced  and  waiting  for 
permission  to  present  himself,  ' '  Why  did  n  't  you  come 
right  up?"  that  this  morning  he  said  to  the  servant,  *'It 
imports  not  to  advise  her.  I  shall  mount."  Did  the 
servant  look  faintly  ironical,  or  did  Gerald  mistakenly 
imagine  it? 

The  tune  she  sang  sounded  familiar.  It  must  be  a  hymn, 
he  decided,  but  could  not  remember  what  hymn,  or  even 
be  sure  it  was  one  he  had  heard  before,  hymns  are  so 
much  alike.  He  stopped  at  the  sitting-room  door  and 
waited,  listening  to  the  big,  free,  untrained  velvet  voice, 
true  throughout  the  low  and  medium  registers,  flat  on  the 
upper  notes,  the  singer  having  carelessly  pitched  her  hymn 
too  high.  He  could  hear  the  lines  now,  given  with  a  swing 
that  made  them  curl  over  at  the  ends,  and  with  a  punch 
on  certain  of  the  syllables,  irrespective  of  their  mean- 
ing: 

**Feed  me  with — the  heavenly  manna 
In  this  harr — en  wilderi?65s; 
Be  my  shield,  my  sword,  my  banner, 
Be  the  Lord — my  righteousness/*' 


138  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

When  she  came  to  the  words, 

''Death  of  death  and  hell's  destruction," 

a  bang  and  rattling  ensued,  as  if  some  one  were  taking  a 
practical  hand  in  that  work.  The  heavenly  ferryman  was 
thereupon  besought  with  vigor  to  land  her  safe  on  Canaan's 
side,  and  the  singing  ceased. 

Gerald  stood  waiting,  if  perchance  there  might  be  another 
verse,  and  wondered,  while  waiting,  at  the  sounds  he  heard 
in  the  room,  easy  to  recognize,  but  difficult  to  explain. 
"When  it  seemed  certain  that  the  music  was  at  an  end,  he, 
after  hesitating  for  some  minutes  longer,  gently  tapped. 

"Oh,  come  in!"  was  shouted  from  inside.  ^^Entrez,  will 
you?     Avanii!" 

He  opened  the  door  a  little  way,  discreetly,  and  put 
in  his  head,  ready  to  draw  it  back  at  once  should  he  see 
bis  morning  call  as  befalling  inopportunely. 

Aurora  was  so  far  from  expecting  him  that  for  a  second 
or  two  she  actually  did  not  recognize  him,  and  waited  to 
understand  what  was  wanted  of  her.  Her  head  was  tied  in 
a  white  cloth,  her  sleeves  were  turned  back,  she  had  on  an 
apron,  and  she  held  a  broom.  The  furniture  was  pushed 
together  out  of  the  corners,  some  of  it  covered  with  sheets ; 
the  windows  were  open.  No  mistake  possible.  Aurora 
was  sweeping. 

A  burst  of  laughter  rang;  the  broom-handle  knocked  on 
the  floor. 

"Yes,  I  'm  sweeping,"  she  cried.  ''Come  right  in! 
You  find  me  practising  one  of  my  accomplishments.  I 
can 't  play  the  piano,  I  can 't  speak  languages,  I  can 't  paint 
bunches  of  flowers  on  black  velvet ;  but  I  can  sweep,  I  can 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  139 

cook,  I  can  wash  dishes — or  babies,  one  just  as  well  as  the 
other,  and  I  can  nurse  the  sick." 

*'I  am  afraid  I  have  come  at  an  inconvenient  moment." 

**Not  at  all.  I  'm  glad  to  see  you.  I  was  most  through, 
anyhow. ' ' 

She  had  pulled  the  cloth  off  her  head,  and  was  patting 
her  hair  before  the  glass.  She  turned  down  her  cuffs,  un- 
tied her  apron,  and  came  to  shake  hands,  smiling  as  usual. 

''You  caught  me,"  she  said.  ''When  I  feel  a  certain 
way,  I  've  got  to  work  off  steam,  and  there  's  nothing  that 
does  it  like  sweeping." 

"I  beg  of  you — I  beg  of  you  to  let  me  close  those  win- 
dows for  you ! ' ' 

"All  right.  I  'm  awfully  hot,  but  I  guess  the  room  's 
cold.  We  can  have  a  fire  in  a  minute.  Everything  's  there 
to  make  it." 

"I  beg  you  will  not  trouble!  I  shall  only  remain  a  mo- 
ment and  leave  you  to  finish." 

"No,  now,  no ;  don't  go  and  leave  me.  I  was  only  sweep- 
ing to  be  doing  something.  To  clean  the  room  was  n  't  m}^ 
real  object.  I  took  their  work  from  Zaira  and  Vitale,  who 
are  the  ones  to  do  it  usually,  in  a  way  that  's  new  to  me, 
with  damp  sawdust.  It  's  nearly  finished,  anyhow.  All 
I  've  got  to  do  is  fold  the  sheets  and  push  things  back  into 
their  places." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  please,  please,  allow  me — " 

He  tried  to  help  her,  waking  to  the  fact  that  she  was  as 
strong  as  he,  if  not  stronger. 

The  room  in  a  minute  looked  as  usual,  and  she  knelt  in 
front  of  the  hearth,  piling  up  a  kindling  of  pine-cones  and 
little  fagots,  on  which  she  laid  a  picturesque  old  root  of 
olive-wood. 


140  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

*'You  seem  to  be  alone,"  he  remarked. 

''Yes;  Estelle  's  gone  out." 

He  was  not  sorry  to  hear  it.  Miss  Madison,  whom  he 
entirely  liked,  affected  him  curiously,  or,  to  express  the 
matter  more  exactly,  in  a  curious  degree  failed  to  affect 
him  at  all.  Her  personality  did  not  bite  on  his  conscious- 
ness. Unless  some  chance  left  them  on  each  other's  hands, 
he  had  difficulty  in  remembering  her  presence.  It  was  not 
that  she  was  colorless;  not  by  any  means.  She  obviously 
had  character,  brightness,  individuality,  even  charm;  but 
so  far  as  he  was  concerned  she  might  have  had  none  of 
these.  Particularly  when  her  big  friend  was  by  Gerald 
ceased  to  see  her.  He  recognized  the  danger  of  her  nega- 
tive effect  on  him,  and  often  made  a  point  of  devoting  to 
her  a  special  amount  of  attention,  being  toward  her  of  an 
unnatural  amiability,  trying  thus  to  keep  her  ignorant  of 
the  extent  to  which  she  did  not  exist  for  him.  Now  he 
suddenly  remembered  that  from  the  choice  little  treat  pro- 
vided for  Mrs.  Hawthorne  Miss  Madison  had  been  left  out 
— forgotten.  He  was  dismayed.  Then  a  pleasant  side  to 
the  affair  revealed  itself  by  a  dim  gleam.  He  was  mortified 
by  his  forgetfulness,  but  the  ladies  were  after  all  not 
Siamese  twins. 

*'You  must  wonder  what  brought  me  at  this  unusual 
time  of  day,"  he  said. 

''Any  time  's  good  that  brings  you.  But  what  in  par- 
ticular was  it  ? " 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you  to  keep  free  next  Saturday  after- 
noon and,  if  you  will  be  so  good,  spend  it  in  part  with  me. 
I  should  like  to  take  you  to  Mrs.  Grangeon's." 

"Mrs.  Grangeon's  .  .  .?" 

"Don't  you  remember?    Antt^nia!     It  is  Antonia's  real 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  141 

name.  On  the  first  evening  of  our  acquaintance  you  had 
a  good  deal  to  say  about  her.  If  I  remember  rightly,  you 
expressed  then  a  desire  to  meet  her — see  her  face." 

"Yes,  yes.     Antonia,  of  course." 

* '  She  is  a  figure  of  importance  here  in  Florence.  She  is 
in  truth  a  very  gifted  woman — in  her  way,  great,  and  of 
wide  reputation.  And  she  is  clever,  except  in  just  some 
little  spots.  Geniuses,  one  has  observed,  are  seldom  quite 
free  from  such  spots.  She  has  kept  herself  very  much  to 
herself  now  for  several  years,  so  that  an  occasion  to  see  her 
is  grasped  eagerly.  This  affair  of  hers  on  Saturday  is  the 
first  thing  of  the  kind  in  an  age.  Her  villa  at  Bellosguardo 
is  most  interesting  and  full  of  interesting  things.  And  the 
view  from  her  terrace  is  worthy  of  a  pilgrimage.  You  per- 
ceive, Mrs.  Hawthorne,  that  I  am  doing  what  I  can  to  faire 
valoir  the  scrap  of  entertainment  I  have  to  offer." 

* '  I  think  it  perfectly  lovely  of  you !  Of  course  I  '11  go, 
and  delighted  to.  And  see  how  it  fits  in — "  She  kindled 
to  joyful  enthusiasm.  ''We  Ve  just  bought  a  lot  of  her 
books.  We  realized  we  'd  got  to  have  some  books  to  make 
this  room  look  finished  off.  We  bought  hers  in  paper 
covers  and  have  had  them  beautifully  bound.  Just  look 
here."  She  went  to  take  a  specimen  from  the  bookcase, 
a  white  parchment  volume  with  gold  tooling,  a  crimson 
fleur-de-lys  painted  on  the  front  cover.  "Aren't  they 
lovely?  An  idea!  We  '11  take  some  of  them  up  to  her 
and  ask  her  to  write  her  name  in  them.  Wouldn't  that 
be  flattering?" 

"Ye  .  .  .  es." 

"I  've  been  trying  to  read  some  of  it  over  since  these 
came  home  from  the  binder 's.  My !  Are  n  't  those  people 
of  hers  wonderful — where  you  'd  think  the  ladies  never 


142  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

could  have  a  stomache-ache  nor  the  gentlemen  a  corn!'' 

"I  hope  Miss  Madison  will  not  think  I  forgot  her,"  he 
disingenuously  said,  "when  in  replying  to  Mrs.  Grangeon's 
invitation  I  begged  permission  to  bring  you,  and  that  she 
will  do  me  the  honor  some  day  very  soon — " 

"Oh,  Estelle  won't  mind!" 

The  mention  of  Estelle  seemed  to  change  the  color  of 
Mrs.  Hawthorne 's  thoughts,  easting  a  shadow  over  them. 

"Estelle  and  I  had  a  spat  this  morning,"  she  told  him. 

"Oh!" 

' '  That  's  why  I  was  sweeping  and  why  she  's  gone  for  a 
walk  by  herself. ' ' 

"I  'm  so  sorry!"  was  all  he  found  to  say. 

"It  doesn't  amount  to  anything,"  she  cheered  him. 
"We  've  had  times  of  quarreling  all  our  lives,  and  we  Ve 
known  each  other  since  we  were  children.  Her  aunt  and 
my  grandmother  had  houses  side  by  side  in  the  country; 
there  was  just  a  fence  between  our  yards.  That  's  how  we 
first  came  to  be  friends.  All  our  lives  we  Ve  had  the  way 
of  sometimes  saying  what  the  other  doesn't  like.  And  do 
you  know  what  's  always  at  the  bottom  of  it?  That  each 
one  thinks  she  knows  what  would  be  most  for  the  other's 
good  to  do,  and  we  get  so  mad  because  the  other  won't  do 
what  we  ourself  think  would  be  best  for  her!  Just  as 
some  people  abuse  you  because  you  're  a  pig,  we  as  likely  as 
not  abuse  the  other  because  she  isn't  a  pig.  One  of  the 
biggest  fights  we  ever  had  was  because  once  late  at  night, 
when  she  was  dead  tired,  tired  as  a  yellow  dog,  I  wanted 
her  to  sit  still  and  let  me  pack  for  her,  or,  anyhow,  let  me 
help  her  pack.  And  she  said  I  was  as  tired  as  she, — as  if 
that  was  possible !— and  if  I  did  n't  go  to  bed  and  get  some 
rest  myself  and  let  her  alone  to  get  through  her  packing  as 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  143 

she  pleased  if  it  was  daylight  before  she  finished  she 
should  have  a  fit.  And  from  one  thing  to  another  we  went 
on  getting  madder  and  madder  till  we  said  things  you  would 
have  thought  made  it  impossible  for  us  ever  to  speak  to 
each  other  again.  But  the  first  thing  next  morning,  when 
we  opened  our  eyes,  we  just  looked  at  each  other  and  be- 
gan to  laugh.  Another  time  we  fought  like  cats  and  dogs 
because  I  wanted  to  give  her  something  and  she  refused  to 
take  it." 

**I  don^t  call  those  quarrels,  Mrs.  Hawthorne." 

**  You  would  if  you  could  hear  us ;  you  would  have  if  you 
could  have  heard  us  this  morning.  And  it  was  only  a  little 
one.  You  see,  two  people  are  n  't  best  friends  for  nothing. 
It  gives  you  a  sort  of  freedom;  you  aren't  a  bit  afraid. 
And  when  you  know  it  's  only  the  other's  good  you  have 
at  heart,  it  makes  you  awfully  firm  and  fast-set  in  your 
point  of  view.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I  'm  always 
the  one  in  the  wrong." 

**Areyou?" 

* '  Of  course  I  am.  But  I  like  to  have  my  way,  even  if  it  's 
wrong.  Hear  me  talk !  How  that  does  sound !  And  I 
was  brought  up  so  strict !  But  it  's  so.  I  want  to  do  as 
I  please.  I  want  to  have  fun.  It  began  this  morning  with 
Hat  saying  I  spent  too  much  money." 

*'Did  she  say  that?  How  unreasonable,  how  far- 
fetched!" 

'*  'What  's  the  good  of  having  it,'  I  said,  'if  I  can't 
spend  it?' 

'*  'You  'd  buy  anything,'  she  said,  'that  anybody  wanted 
you  to  buy,  if  it  was  a  mangy  stuffed  monkey.  It  is  n  't 
generosity, '  she  said  ;  '  it  's  just  weakness. ' 

'  *  '  Oh,  suck  an  orange ! '  I  said,  '  Chew  gum !     It  's  any- 


lU  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

thing  you  choose  to  call  it.  But  when  a  thing  takes  my 
fancy,  I  'm  going  right  on  to  buy  it.  And  if  it  enables  a 
greasy  little  Italian  to  buy  himself  and  his  children  more 
garlic,'  I  said,  'that  's  not  going  to  stop  me,'  I  said.  I 
don't  mind  showing  you" — she  dropped  her  selections  from 
the  morning 's  dialogue — ' '  the  thing  I  bought  which  started 
our  little  discussion.  The  artist  who  made  it  brought  it 
himself  to  show  me. ' ' 

She  went  to  take  the  object  referred  to  from  her  desk, 
and  held  it  before  him,  examining  it  at  the  same  time  as 
he  did. 

' '  Do  you  see  what  it  is  ?     Can  you  tell  at  once  ? ' ' 

*'H-m,  I  'm  not  sure.  Is  it  intended  for  a  portrait  of 
Queen  Margherita?" 

^ '  Right  you  are !  Of  course  that  's  what  it  is.  It  's  a 
picture  of  the  queen,  done  by  hand  with  pen  and  ink;  but 
that  's  not  all.  If  you  should  take  a  magnifying  glass,  you 
would  see  that  every  line  is  a  line  of  writing — fine,  fine 
pen-writing,  the  very  finest  possible,  and  if  you  begin  read- 
ing at  this  pearl  of  her  crown,  and  just  follow  through  all 
the  quirligiggles  and  everything  to  tlie  end,  you  will  have 
read  the  whole  history  of  Italy  in  a  condensed  form !  Is  n  't 
it  wonderful?  Don't  you  think  it  extraordinary,  a  real 
curiosity?     Don't  you  think  I  was  right  to  buy  it?" 

*'My  opinion  on  that  point,  dear  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  would 
rather  depend  on  what  you  paid  for  it." 

*'0h,  would  it?"  She  lost  impetus,  and  gave  a  moment 
to  reflection.  ^'Well,  I  shall  never  know,  then,  for  I  'm 
not  going  to  tell  you.  One  's  enough  blaming  me  for  ex- 
travagance. ' ' 

*'My  dear  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  pray  don't  suppose  me  bold 
enough  to — ^" 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  145 

**0h,  you  're  bold  enough,  my  friend.  But  while  I  like 
my  friends  to  speak  their  minds,  I  've  had  just  enough  of 
it  for  one  day,  d'you  see?  I  've  had  enough,  in  fact,  to 
make  me  sort  of  homesick." 

She  looked  it,  and  not  as  far  as  could  be  from  tears.  The 
small  vexation  of  his  failure  to  think  her  treasure  worth 
anything  she  might  have  paid  for  it,  the  intimation  that 
he  might  join  the  camp  of  the  enemy  in  finding  her  ex- 
travagant, had  acted  apparently  as  a  last  straw. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  I  beg  of  you  not  to  feel  home- 
sick!" he  cried,  compunctious  and  really  eager.  *'It  's 
such  a  poor  compliment  to  Florence  and  to  us,  you  know, 
us  Florentines,  who  owe  you  so  much  for  bringing  among 
us  this  winter  your  splendid  laughter  and  good  spirits  and 
the  dimples  which  it  does  us  so  much  good  to  see." 

"No,"  she  said  ruefully,  "you  can't  rub  me  the  right 
way  till  I  'm  contented  here  as  I  was  yesterday.  Florence 
is  all  right,  and  the  Florentines  are  mighty  polite;  but — " 
She  looked  at  the  fire  a  moment,  while  he  tried,  and  failed, 
to  find  something  effectively  soothing  to  say.  "In  the  State 
of  Massachusetts  there  's  a  sort  of  spit  running  into  the 
sea,  and  on  a  sand  hill  of  this  there  's  a  little  shingled 
house  that  never  had  a  drop  of  paint  outside  of  it  nor  of 
plumbing  inside ;  but  there  's  an  old  well  at  the  back,  deep 
as  they  dig  them,  with,  on  the  hottest  day,  ice-water  at  the 
bottom.  The  yard  is  pretty  well  scratched  up  by  the  hens, 
but  there  are  a  few  things  in  it  you  can't  kill  out — some 
lilacs  and  some  tiger-lilies  and  a  darling,  ragged,  strag- 
gling old  strawberry-bush.  Outside  the  fence,  hosts  of 
Bouncing  Bets — you  know  what  they  are,  don 't  you  ?  The 
front  door  has  some  nice  neat  blinds,  always  closed,  like 
those  of  the  best  room,  except  for  weddings  and  funerals; 


146  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

but  the  back  door  is  open,  and  when  you  sit  on  the  step 
you  can  look  off  down  an  old  slope  of  apple-orchard  and 
over  across  it  at  the  neighbors'  roofs  and  chimneys.  And 
there,  Geraldino,  is  where  Auroretta  would  like  to  be." 

He  had  the  impulse  to  reach  out  and  touch  the  ends  of 
his  fingers  to  her  hand,  fondly,  as  one  might  do  to  a  child, 
but  he  prudently  refrained.  His  eyes,  however,  dwelled  on 
her  with  a  smile  that  conveyed  sympathy.  He  said,  after 
her,  amusedly : 

''Auroretta!"  / 

She  brightened. 

"After  I  Ve  been  bad,"  she  said,  "I  always  am  blue/' 

But  within  the  hour  he  had  come  near  quarreling  with 
her,  he  also,  and  on  more  than  one  score. 

It  began  with  his  making  a  pleasant  remark  upon  her 
voice,  which  seemed  to  him  worth  cultivating.  She  brushed 
aside  the  idea  of  devoting  study  to  the  art  of  singing. 

' '  But, ' '  she  said,  * '  Italo  has  brought  me  some  songs.  He 
plays  them  over  and  shows  me  how  to  sing  them.  We  have 
lots  of  fun."  To  give  him  an  example,  she  broke  forth, 
adapting  her  peculiarly  American  pronunciation  to  Cec- 
cherelli's  peculiarly  Italian  intonations,  ''  *Non  so  resistere, 
sei  troppo  bella!'  '^ 

Gerald  winced  and  darkened. 

"Then  there  's  this  one,"  she  went  on,  '^  ^Mia  piccirella, 
dehy  vieni  alio  mare!^  Do  you  want  to  hear  me  sing  it  like 
Miss  Felixson,  together  with  her  dog,  which  always  bursts 
out  howling  before  she  's  done?  I  Ve  heard  them  three 
times,  and  can  do  the  couple  of  them  to  a  T." 

"Please  don't!"  he  hurriedly  requested,  "I  hope,"  he 
added  doubtfully,  "that  you  won't  do  it  to  amuse  any  of 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  147 

your  other  friends,  either."  As  she  did  not  quickly  assure 
him  that  she  neither  had  done,  nor  ever  would  dream  of 
doing,  such  a  low  thing,  he  went  on,  with  the  liberty  of 
speech  that  amazingly  prevailed  between  them :  ''Extraor- 
dinary as  it  seems,  you  would  be  perfectly  capable  of  it. 
And  it  would  be  a  grave  mistake." 

"I  've  done  it  for  Italo  when  he  was  playing  my  accom- 
paniment.    For  nobody  else." 

''Mrs.  Hawthorne,  if  that  little  man  has  become  your 
singing-master,  will  you  not  intrust  me  with  the  honorable 
charge  of  likewise  teaching  you  something  ?  No,  not  paint- 
ing. I  should  like  to  drill  you  in  the  pronunciation  of  that 
little  man's  name.  It  is  Ceccherelli.  Cec-che-rel-li.  Cec- 
che-rel-li.'^ 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No  use.     I  've  got  accustomed  to  the  other  now." 

He  felt  a  spark  dropped  among  the  recesses  where  his 
inflammable  temper  was  kept. 

"Before  you  know  it  the  fellow  will  be  calling  you 
Aurora!"  he  said,  repressing  the  outburst  of  his  wrath 
at  this  possibility. 

"He  does,  my  friend,"  she  answered  him  quietly.  "He 
can't  say  Hawthorne.  Do  you  hear  him  saying  Haw- 
thorne?    He  calls  me  Signora  Aurora." 

"Then  why  not  call  him  Signor  Italo?" 

"At  this  time  of  day?  It  would  be  too  formal.  He 
would  wonder  what  he  'd  done  to  offend  me." 

Gerald  was  reminded  that  since  Christmas  Ceccherelli 
had  been  wearing,  instead  of  his  silver  turnip,  a  fine  gold 
watch,  her  overt  gift  and  his  frank  boast,  which  he  con- 
spicuously extracted  from  its  chamois-skin  case  every  time 
he  needed  to  know  the  hour. 


148  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

''Mrs.  Hawthorne,"  said  Gerald,  ''you  have  repeatedly 
said  that  you  have  what  you  call  lots  of  fun  with  Cecche- 
relli.  Would  you  mind  giving  me  an  idea  of  what  the  fun 
consists  in?  I  wish  to  have  light — that  I  may  do  the  man 
justice.  Left  to  myself,  I  should  judge  him  to  be  the  dull- 
est, commonest,  cheapest  of  inexpressibly  vulgar,  insig- 
nificant, pretentious,  ugly,  and  probably  dishonest,  little 
men."     The  adjectives  came  rolling  out  irrepressibly. 

"Perhaps  he  is,"  Aurora  said  serenely;  "but  haven't 
you  noticed,  Stickly-prickly,  that  about  some  things  you 
and  I  don't  feel  alike?  Italo  plays  the  piano  in  a  way  that 
perfectly  delights  me,  he  's  good-hearted,  and  he  makes 
me  laugh.     Isn't  that  enough?" 

' '  In  short,  you  like  him.  You  like  so  many  people,  Mrs. 
Hawthorne,  and  of  such  various  kinds,  that  though  one  is 
bound  to  be  glad  to  be  among  your  friends,  one  need  n  't — 
need  one? — feel  exactly  flattered." 

She  seemed  to  consider  this,  but  instead  of  taking  it  up, 
went  on  with  the  subject  of  Italo. 

"He  entertains  me.  He  knows  all  about  everybody  in 
Florence  and  tells  me." 

"He  gossips,  you  mean." 

Again  she  considered  a  moment  before  going  on. 

"Funny,  when  I  don't  know  the  people,  or  just  know 
them  by  sight,  and  they  and  the  life  are  all  so  foreign  and 
apart  from  me,  gossip  about  them  doesn't  seem  the  same 
as  gossip  at  home.  It  's  more  like  Antonia's  novels,  con- 
densed and  told  in  the  queerest  English !  It  was  some  time 
before  I  could  make  out  what  he  meant  when  he  said  two 
gentlemen  had  fought  a  duel  because  one  of  them  had 
found  the  other  nasconding  in  his  garden-house.  The  one 
thus  found  obstinated  himself,  says  Italo,  to  maintain  that 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  149 

he  had  come  to  make  a  copy  of  the  architectural  design 
over  the  door.  But  as  he  didn't  seem  to  have  any  pen- 
cil—'' 

''Mrs.  Hawthorne,  how  can  you  be  amused  by  such  dis- 
gusting stuff  ? ' ' 

She  gazed  at  him  inquiringly,  with  very  blue  eyes  and 
a  look  of  innocence,  real  or  put  on,  then  laughed. 

''I  am,  just.  I  can't  tell  you  the  how  of  it.  Do  you 
know  Italo's  sister  Clotilde?" 

*'I  have  not  that  advantage,  no." 

''You  soon  will  have,  if  you  care  for  it,  for  she  's  com- 
ing to  live  with  us." 

He  stared. 

''Yes,  she  's  coming  to  keep  house.  She  speaks  English 
quite  well,  because  she  's  had  so  much  to  do  with  English 
and  Americans,  being  a  teacher  of  Italian  and  French. 
It  began  with  Italo  wanting  us  to  take  lessons  of  her.  But, 
bless  you,  I  don 't  want  to  study !  I  can  pick  up  all  I  need 
without.  We  said,  however,  'Bring  her  to  see  us.'  And 
he  did.     She  's  real  nice." 

*'Does  she  resemble  her  brother?" 

"In  some  ways.  I  've  an  idea,  though,  that  you  'd  like 
her  better  than  you  seem  to  do  him.  I  believe  we  shall  be 
very  well  satisfied  with  her,  and  shall  save  money.  Since 
we  seem  to  have  got  on  to  the  subject  of  money  to-day: 
Luigi,  the  butler,  who  has  everj^thing  under  him  now,  Es- 
telle  says  is  a  caution  to  snakes,  the  way  he  robs  us.  Now, 
we  're  easy-going  and,  I  dare  say,  fools ;  but  not  darn,  darn 
fools.  It  's  a  mistake  to  think  we  wouldn't  see  a  thing 
big  's  a  mountain,  and  that  you  could  cheat  us  the  way  that 
handsome,  fine-mannered,  dignified  villain  Loo-ee-gy  thinks 
he  can.     So  we  're  going  to  put  in  his  place  a  nice  woman 


150  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

who  is,  in  part,  our  friend,  and  will  care  to  see  that  we  're 
dealt  fairly  with.  Clotilde  doesn't  seem  to  mind  giving 
up  her  lessons  to  come  and  be  a  sort  of  elegant  housekeeper 
for  us." 

**I  understand." 

''Charlie  Hunt  is  disgusted  about  it,  because  when  we 
complained  of  Luigi  before  him,  he  said  he  would  find  us 
exactly  the  right  person  to  take  his  place.  But,  you  see, 
we  did  n't  wait.  I  don't  see  that  we  were  bound  to.  What 
do  you  think?" 

* '  It  is  a  case,  dear  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  where  I  must  not  al- 
low myself  to  say  what  I  think." 

''Personally,  I  must  say  I  was  rather  glad  to  have  Clo- 
tilde step  in  as  she  did,  because  I  don't  mind  telling  you — 
you  won't  tell  anybody  else? — I  find  just  the  least  little  bit 
of  a  disposition  in  that  young  man  Charlie  to  run  things 
in  this  house.  D '  you  know  what  I  mean  ?  I  suppose  it  's 
the  way  he  's  made.  He  has  been  awfully  kind,  and  helped 
a  lot  in  all  sorts  of  ways,  and  I  like  him  ever  so  much ;  but 
I  was  glad  to  check  him  just  a  little,  and  put  who  I  pleased 
over  my  own  servants,  and  then  go  on  just  as  good  friends 
with  him  as  ever." 

"Mrs.  Hawthorne,  why  don't  you  make  Mrs.  Foss  your 
adviser  in  all  such  matters?  She  is  so  kind  always  and 
of  such  good  counsel.  It  would  be  so  much  the  safest 
thing." 

' '  Of  course ;  but  it  was  she  who  found  Luigi  for  us,  you 
see.  She  can't  always  know.  As  far  as  Charlie  Hunt  is 
concerned,  I  don't  want  you  to  think  that  we  think  any 
less  of  him  than  before.  He  's  good  and  kind  as  can  be, 
and  does  ever  so  many  nice  things  for  us.  We  were  at  his 
apartment  the  other  day,  where  he  had  a  tea-party  ex- 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  151 

pressly  for  us,  with  his  cousins  there,  and  Mr.  Landini  and 
two  or  three  others.  And  then  when  he  heard  me  say  I  like 
dogs  he  promised  to  give  me  a  dog,  one  of  those  lovely 
clown  dogs, — poodles, — with  their  hair  cut  in  a  fancy  pat- 
tern, when  he  can  lay  his  hand  on  a  real  beauty." 

*'Mrs.  Hawthorne" — Gerald  almost  lifted  himself  off  his 
seat  with  the  emphasis  of  his  cry,— ''Don't  let  him  give 
you  a  dog ! ' ' 

She  looked  at  him  in  amazement. 

''Why,  what  's  wrong?" 

' '  Don 't !  don 't !  Can 't  you  see  that  you  must  not  let  him 
give  you  a  dog?" 

"  No,  I  can 't.    Why  on  earth  ? ' ' 

"After  what  you  said  a  few  minutes  ago,"  he  stam- 
mered, feeling  blindly  for  reasons,  "which  shows  that  you 
have  something  to  complain  of  in  his  conduct  toward  you, 
you  ought  not  to  allow  him  to  give  you  a  dog.  A  dog — 
you  don't  understand,  and  I  can't  make  you.  It  will  be 
too  awful ! ' ' 

"You  surely  are  the  queerest  man  I  have  ever  known," 
she  said  sincerely. 

To  which  he  did  not  reply. 

He  restrained  himself  from  blurting  out  that  Charlie 
Hunt,  for  such  and  such  reasons,  could  never  deserve  the 
extreme  privilege  of  giving  her  a  dog.  Leslie  had  once 
casually  spoken  the  true  word  about  Charlie.  "Charlie 
has  no  real  inside,"  she  had  said,  and  continued,  neverthe- 
less, to  like  him  well  enough.  He  was  young,  handsome,  in 
his  way  attractive.  Most  people  liked  him  to  just  that  ex- 
tent— well  enough;  few  went  beyond,  unless  early  in  the 
acquaintance.  He  so  systematically  did  what  would  be 
most  useful  to  himself  that  it  was  difficult  to  preserve  illu- 


15a  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

sions  about  his  powers  of  devotion  or  unselfishness.  He 
had  lived  as  one  of  the  family  with  his  aunt  and  cousins 
till  he  found  himself  desiring  an  increase  of  personal  lib- 
erty; then  an  occasion  presenting  itself  to  make  a  really 
good  arrangement  with  an  Italian  family  of  decent  middle 
class  with  their  best  rooms  to  let,  he  had  set  up  bachelor 
quarters,  and  ceasing  to  be  an  inmate  of  his  aunt's  house, 
retained  unusually  little  sense  of  tie  with  it. 

''Charlie  might  be  nicer  about  going  to  places  with  us," 
Francesca  openly  grumbled,  "seeing  he  's  the  nearest  we  've 
got  to  a  brother. ' ' 

All  this  was  f ormlessly  in  Gerald 's  mind — this  and  much 
more — when  his  spirit  groaned  that  Charlie  should  be  giv- 
ing Aurora  a  dog. 

Mrs.  Hawthorne  was  looking  at  him,  trying  to  make  him 
out.  She  could  not.  One  thing,  however,  was  plain,  and 
it  being  so  plain  simplified  all.  He  felt  actual  pain  because 
Charlie  Hunt  was  going  to  give  her  a  dog.  The  wherefore 
it  was  vain  to  seek.  But  she  had  no  desire  to  give  pain 
of  any  kind,  even  by  way  of  teasing  him,  to  this  funnily  sen- 
sitive fellow  whose  shoulders  looked  so  sharp  under  his 
coat. 

''All  right,''  she  said.  "If  he  says  anything  more  about 
it,  I  '11  tell  him  I  've  changed  my  mind  and  don't  want  a 
dog.  Are  you  satisfied?  And  then  if  you  won't  tell  me 
what  the  objection  is  to  my  having  one,  I  shall  have  to  sit 
down  and  try  to  guess." 

Gerald,  upon  obtaining  so  easily  what  he  had  wanted 
apparently  to  the  point  of  tragedy,  looked  sheepish,  ashamed 
of  himself.  His  thanks  were  given  in  a  slowly  returning 
smile. 

"I  shouldn't  think  it  would  be  so  difficult,"  he  said. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  153 


Antonia  had  been  very  friendly  to  Gerald  at  the  period 
of  their  first  acquaintance.  She  had  cared  for  his  painting, 
specimens  of  which  had  come  to  her  notice  through  Amabel 
Van  Zandt,  and  distinguished  the  at  that  time  very  young 
artist  to  the  extent  of  inviting  him  to  her  villa,  showing 
interest  in  his  talent  and  future,  making  him  talk.  From 
one  year  to  the  next,  other  things  had  taken  up  her  mind  to 
his  exclusion.  He  had  continued,  however,  to  pay  his  re- 
spects, if  she  were  at  home,  at  least  once  in  the  season,  aud 
retained  gratitude  toward  her,  along  with  the  presumption 
that  he  could  never  be  to  her  the  same  exactly  as  the  first- 
come  outsider.  He  remembered  At  Homes  of  hers  at- 
tended in  the  old  days,  and  saw  every  reason  why  ^Irs. 
Hawthorne  should  enjoy  one  of  these,  none  why  it  should 
not  enjoy  her.  On  the  contrary.  Making  full  allowance 
for  the  fact  that  he  had  grown  accustomed  to  her  manner 
and  mode,  Mrs.  Hawthorne  had  yet  seemed  to  him  lately 
of  a  circumspection  not  to  be  surpassed.  When  alone  with 
him  and  Estelle,  she  was  one  person ;  when  in  company,  she 
was  another,  not  a  little  like  Mrs.  Foss,  retaining  enough 
of  her  own  irrepressible  self  to  seem  just  acceptably  orig- 
inal. Antonia,  the  novelist,  declared  a  fondness  for  peo- 
ple out  of  the  ordinary,  the  conventional.  Gerald  thought 
the  American  might  interest  her.  But  if  she  did  not,  little 
depends,  at  a  reception,  upon  the  hostess  being  charmed 
with  individual  guests ;  he  still  believed  that  Aurora  would 
have  a  good  time — he  meant  to  ensure  her  doing  this. 

Aurora  had,  as  she  described  it,  dressed  herself  to  kill, 
and  was  looking,  Estelle  told  her,  perfectly  stunning.  She 
had  on  velvets  and  furs,  pearls  and   plumes.     She  had 


154  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

wished  at  one  and  the  same  time  to  make  Gerald  Fane 
proud  of  her  and  do  honor  to  Antonia's  party.  Concealed 
in  her  muff  was  a  white  parchment  volume — ^muffs  were 
small  in  those  days.  A  similar  volume  had  been  stuffed 
into  each  of  Gerald's  overcoat  pockets. 

Gerald,  as  has  been  said,  remembered  At  Homes  of  An- 
tonia's, and  had  in  mind  an  image  of  what  he  might  ex- 
pect to  see. 

He  perceived  at  once  that  to-day  all  was  different.  This 
was  immensely  choice,  the  most  so  afforded  by  Florence. 
That  he  had  been  invited  showed  Antonia's  estimate  of 
him  still  as  a  person  of  artistic  significance ;  also,  he  mod- 
estly decided,  the  difficulty  one  had  to  make  up  an  assem- 
blage solely  of  notabilities.  Her  permission  to  bring  a 
friend  showed  flattering  faith  in  his  taste. 

Persons  were  there  whom  one  but  seldom  saw  anywhere ; 
the  persons  whom  one  saw  everywhere  were  conspicuously 
absent.  Among  a  majority  of  English,  there  was  a  sprin- 
kling of  Italian  nobility,  mostly  older  people.  Antonia  had 
lived  for  many  years  in  Florence.  There  was  a  very  able 
historian,  allied  to  the  English  through  his  wife ;  there  was 
an  old  General  of  the  wars  of  liberation ;  there  was  a  Church 
dignitary  of  infinite  elegance  and  high  rank:  all  serious 
people  who  did  not  go  to  teas,  and  whose  coming  to  this  one 
was  a  compliment  to  Antonia.  The  exceptional  woman's 
right  to  the  like  homage  was  established;  her  celebration, 
of  Italy  was  by  Italy,  in  the  persons  of  such  sons  of  hers 
as  got  an  inkling  of  their  debt,  gracefully  acknowledged. 

Gerald,  entering  the  large  drawing-room  with  Aurora, 
at  first  wondered,  then  understood.  The  interesting  Prin- 
cess Rostopchine,  on  a  visit  to  Florence,  was  present — 
woman    of    accomplishments    in    every    branch — ^painter. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  155 

sculptress,  musician,  author ;  a  beauty  into  the  bargain,  and 
lady-in-waiting  for  many  years  to  a  queen. 

She  was  no  longer  in  the  freshness  of  youth ;  her  beauty 
had  been  left  a  little  bony,  a  little  fatigued  and  blood- 
less; her  eyelids  drooped  over  the  brilliant  intelligence  of 
her  eyes.  The  poetry  of  her  looks  was  increased  by  her 
costume.  In  wise  disdain  of  the  fashion,  she  went  robed 
rather  than  dressed;  her  things  clung  and  trailed  and  un- 
dulated ;  they  were  gray  as  cobwebs,  dim  as  pressed  orchids. 
She  was  as  fascinating  as  at  any  time  in  her  life — perhaps 
more  so,  because  she  cared  to  be. 

Antonia,  who  had  made  her  acquaintance  at  Aix-les- 
bains,  was  under  her  spell.  The  reception  was  given  to 
honor  her,  rather  than  to  enable  Antonia,  as  Gerald  had  at 
first  supposed,  to  see  her  friends  again  after  several  years 
of  absence  and  neglect. 

A  niece  of  Antonia 's  received,  and  invited  guests  to  be 
refreshed  with  tea,  while  Antonia  and  the  Princess  sat  side 
by  side,  and  now  talked  together,  now  with  others,  who 
of  themselves  approached,  or  whom  Antonia  invited  to 
join  them.  The  conversation  was  part  of  the  time  in 
French,  which  Antonia  spoke  fluently,  but  for  the  greater 
part  in  English,  which  the  princess  spoke  well,  as  Russians 
speak  every  language. 

Gerald  was  watching  for  the  favorable  moment  to  pre- 
sent Aurora;  they  therefore  stood  within  ear-shot.  While 
he  talked  to  keep  her  diverted,  he  was  aware  that  his  com- 
panion less  than  half  listened  to  him,  absorbed  in  Antonia 
and  the  princess. 

A  princess  and  a  famous  writer !  Aurora  had  never  set 
eyes  on  a  princess  before,  nor,  to  her  knowledge,  on  an 
author.     They  hypnotized  her,  those  two.    Their  conversa- 


156  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

tion  was  far  beyond  Leslie's,  she  did  not  understand  any 
of  it,  though  every  syllable  reached  her  ear.  The  marked 
Englishness  of  Antonia's  speech  caused  an  almost  neces- 
sity in  Aurora  to  say  the  words  after  her,  echoing  their 
peculiarity.     Her  lips  unconsciously  moved. 

Aurora's  eyes  were  busy  as  well  as  her  ears.  Antonia 
was  clad  in  a  tea-gown — Aurora  thought  it  was  a  wrapper. 
The  tea-gown  had  long  lain  in  a  chest,  while  Antonia  was 
on  her  travels,  and  the  great  woman's  eyes,  fixed  on  more 
important  things,  had  not  perceived  when  it  was  taken  out 
for  her  wear  to-day  that  it  was  crushed  and  rumpled. 
Aurora  believed  it  had  been  recovered  from  the  ash-can, 
and  her  breast  was  filled  with  awe.  It  was  with  unquali- 
fied and  childlike  admiration  that  she  gazed  at  the  two 
women  whose  soaring  superiority  she  unenviously  felt. 

As  it  seemed  unbefitting  as  yet  to  interrupt  their  con- 
versation, Gerald  looked  around  him  in  search  of  acquaint- 
ances whom  to  present  to  Aurora  while  waiting. 

Balm  de  Breze  first  met  his  eye — the  vicomte  was  An- 
tonia's landlord — but  Gerald  discriminated  against  him. 
He  next  spied  Hamilton  Spencer  and  Carlo  Guerra,  both 
genial  fellows,  left  Aurora's  side  for  an  instant  and  brought 
them  up. 

Aurora  called  back  her  attention  and  gave  it  to  them. 
A  certain  success  of  smiles  and  bright  eyes  she  was  almost 
sure  to  have,  with  men.  Gerald  went  off  to  get  her  some 
tea,  took  it  to  her,  and  finding  her  in  the  midst  of  a  suffi- 
ciently lively  time  with  her  new  acquaintances,  returned 
to  Antonia's  niece  at  the  tea-table  for  a  chat  and  cup  of 
tea.  While  hearing  the  news  from  this  unassuming  elderly 
girl,  he  could  keep  an  eye  on  Mrs.  Hawthorne  at  a  distance, 
and  catch  any  facial  signal  for  help. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  157 

Aurora  was  driiikiiiji:  Iier  tea,  holding  her  cup  like  a 
real  lady,  with  her  little  finger  delicately  curled  back. 
Aurora's  figure  stood  out  from  among  those  surrounding 
her  like  a  thing  of  a  different  make,  an  earthen  jar  among 
glass  vases,  a  Swede  among  Japanese. 

Aurora  was  out  of  place,  it  could  not  be  blinked;  and 
that  she  was  so  visible,  in  her  able-bodied  comeliness,  her 
supremacy  of  dimples,  her  extremely  good  corset,  increased 
the  offense.  So  did  also  the  native  assurance  of  her  eye— 
which  had  something  at  all  times  of  a  jovial  sea-captain, 
with  his  foot  on  his  own  deck. 

Gerald  looked  from  her  to  Antonia,  slightly  uneasy.  An- 
tonia's  face  had  characteristics  of  a  man's,  but  along  with 
them  indications  above  all  feminine.  Power  and  caprice 
in  the  great  woman  went  linked.  He  saw  her  while  listen- 
ing to  the  princess  turn  her  head  toward  the  quarter  of  the 
room  tinctured  by  Aurora's  unmodified  presence,  as  if  tak- 
ing account  of  the  voice  and  accent  of  the  stranger  in  her 
house. 

This  seemed  to  him  his  opportunity,  and  excusing  him- 
self from  Miss  Grangeon,  he  started  toward  Aurora. 

''There  are  more  ways  than  one  of  skinning  a  cat!" 
came  floating  to  him  in  Aurora's  deep-piled  voice,  borne  on 
her  frank  laugh,  as  he  approached. 

He  found  her  having  a  very  good  time,  but  ready  to  call 
an  end  to  it  and  go  to  be  presented. 

**I  *m  awfully  nervous!"  she  whispered  to  Gerald,  but 
that  was  a  manner  of  speech.  Aurora's  nerves  were  author- 
proof.  She  meant  that  she  was  impressed  by  the  greatness 
of  the  moment.  She  picked  up  her  three  books  from  the 
table  near  by,  held  them  with  her  left  arm  so  that  her  right 
hand  might  be  free  to  clasp  Antonia 's,  and,  smiling  as  a 


158  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

basket  of  chips — thus  did  she  later  describe  herself — ad- 
vanced toward  the  crowning  honor  of  the  day. 

Antonia  saw  her  coming  and  narrowed  her  eyes  the  bet- 
ter to  see.  Antonia 's  face,  at  no  time  in  her  life  soft,  was 
as  much  like  granite  at  this  moment  as  it  had  the  moment 
before  been  like  old  white  soap;  her  eyes,  fixed  on  the  ap- 
proaching pair,  turned  stonily  unseeing. 

Gerald  bravely  went  through  with  the  introduction,  and 
tried  to  warm  the  atmosphere  with  winged  words.  Au- 
rora's hand  was  all  ready  to  shake. 

Antonia 's  hand  did  not  go  forth  to  meet  it,  but  Aurora, 
elate  and  overflowing,  was  not  put  off  by  this. 

''I  can  never  tell  you" — she  gushed,  ''how  pleased  I  am 
to  meet  you — how  honored  I  feel.  Nor  can  I  ever  tell  you 
how  perfectly  wonderful  I  think  your  books.  Perfectly 
wonderful.  .  .  .  Perfectly  wond  .  .  .  Perf  .  .  .  See  what 
I  've  brought.  These  three  that  I  'm  going  to  leave  for 
you  to  write  in,  if  you  '11  be  so  very  kind.  It  would  in- 
crease their  value  for  me  I  never  can  tell  you  how  much." 

*'My  dear  Madam,"  said  Antonia,  "I  never  inscribe  a 
book  that  I  have  not  myself  presented.  I  am  not  ac- 
quainted with  the  phrase  in  which  it  is  done.  The  value 
of  my  autograph  will  be  enormously  increased  hereafter  for 
collectors  by  the  fact  that  when  I  receive  requests  for  it  I 
drop  them  into  the  waste-basket.  Yes,  I  merely  keep  the 
stamps. ' ' 

''Oh!" 

"Yes." 

"Oh!"  more  faintly. 

"Yes!"  more  firmly. 

Turning  her  back  to  Aurora,  Antonia  once  more  ad- 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  159 

dressed  Princess  Rostopchine.    ' '  Vera  Sergeievna,  you  were 
saying.  ..." 

The  only  sign  Aurora  gave  of  being  flabbergasted  was 
forgetting  the  books  she  held.  They  slid  with  noise  to  the 
floor.  As  Gerald  picked  them  up,  "Did  I  ever  tell  you" — 
she  asked  him  chattily,  and  leisurely  moved  on, — "about 
the  time  I  stood  on  the  sidewalk  to  see  the  procession  go 
by,  in  Boston,  when  we  commemorated  Bunker  Hill?" 
And  she  went  on  with  a  favorite  reminiscence :  how  she  had 
held  on  to  her  inch  of  standing-room,  in  spite  of  a  fat  and 
puffing  man,  a  gimlet-elbowed  woman,  and  a  policeman. 

When  they  were  in  her  coupe,  smartly  bowling  toward 
town,  silence  fell.  Gerald's  brow  was  black,  his  eyes  were 
steely. 

"Mrs.  Hawthorne,"  he  jerked  out,  "I  am  not  going  to 
express  myself  on  the  experiences  of  this  afternoon.  Words 
could  not  do  them  justice,  and  I  am  not  cool  enough  to 
trust  myself.  But  I  wish  to  apologize  to  you  most  humbly 
for  my  egregious,  my  imbecile  mistake." 

"Don't  you  care,  Geraldino!  Don't  you  care  one  bit! 
Bless  your  dear  heart,  I  'm  not  touchy!"  Aurora  said 
cheerily,  and,  not  resisting  as  he  had  recently  done  the 
impulse  to  comfort  his  friend  by  a  caressing  touch,  gave  his 
hajid  as  tight  a  squeeze  as  her  snug  new  glove  permitted. 
"Nasty  old  thing!  What  does  it  matter?  But" — her  eyes 
rounded  at  the  amazed  recollection, — "that  I  should  have 
lived,  I — me — my  size — to  feel  like  a  fly-speck  on  the  wall ! 
It  did  beat  everything !  Yours  truly,  F.  S.  W. !  Fly  Speck 
on  the  Wall!" 

She  was  lost  for  a  moment  in  the  consideration  of  her- 


160  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  I 

self  reduced  to  a  negligible  dot,  and  Gerald,  too  angry  to  ' 

talk,  thought  hydrophobic  thoughts  in  silence.     In  these  | 

he  was  disturbed  by  the  sound  of  her  trying  in  a  murmur  \ 
to  speak  like  Antonia,  and  hitting  off  the  Englishwoman's 
pronunciation  rather  successfully. 

"Deah  Madam!     I  nevah,  nevah  inscrrribe  a  book.  ...  ! 

I  drap  them  into  the  baaahsket.    Yesss.     I  marely  keep  the  | 

stamps. ' '  \ 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  house  where  Gerald  lived  was  the  same  one 
he  had  lived  in  since  the  days  of  Boston  and 
Charlestown.  His  mother,  coming  to  Florence 
with  her  two  children,  a  boy  of  ten,  a  girl  of  seven,  had 
needed  to  look  for  a  modest  corner  in  which  to  build  their 
nest.  The  income  of  which  she  found  herself  possessed 
after  settling  up  her  husband's  affairs,  even  when  supple- 
mented by  the  allowance  made  her  by  his  family,  so  little 
permitted  of  extravagance  that  she  chose  the  topmost  story 
of  the  house  in  Borgo  Pinti,  with  those  long,  long  stairs 
that  perhaps  had  contributed  to  keep  Gerald's  legs  thin. 

Its  street  door  was  narrow,  its  entrance-hall  dark;  the 
stone  stairs  climbed  from  darkness  into  semi-darkness, 
reaching  the  daylight  when  they  likewise  reached  the  Fanes' 
landing.  But  the  old  house  was  not  without  dignity;  all 
three  loved  it. 

As  you  entered  the  Fanes',  there  was  another  dark  hall, 
very  long,  running  to  right  and  left.  One  small  window 
opposite,  on  an  inner  court,  was  all  that  lighted  it.  This 
hall  grew  darker  still,  as  well  as  narrower,  after  turning  a 
corner  to  the  left;  then  it  turned  to  the  right,  and  was 
lighter.  At  the  end  of  it  was  a  window  from  which,  if 
you  bent  out,  you  saw  far  below  you  a  garden. 

The  rooms,  without  being  lofty  and  vaulted,  like  those 
on  the  ground  and  first  floors,  were  pleasantly  high,  and 
paved  with  brick  tiles.     From  the  one  large  interior  room 

161 


162  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

a  window-door  opened  on  to  a  terrace  in  the  court — a  deep 
brick  terrace  with  a  broad  ledge  on  which  stood  a  row  of 
flower-pots.  When  water  was  wanted,  you  opened  a  little 
door  in  the  kitchen  wall  and  let  your  copper  urn  down, 
down,  down  into  mossy-smelling  blackness;  you  heard  a 
splash  and  gurgle,  and  after  proper  exertions  got  it  back 
brimming. 

The  Italian-ness  of  it  all  captivated  the  mother,  who  had 
been  drawn  to  this  dot  on  the  map,  where  she  was  told  one 
could  live  well  at  less  expense  than  in  the  United  States,  by 
the  lure  of  the  idea  of  Italy.  She  was  very  humbly  an 
artist.  She  had  given  drawing  lessons  to  young  ladies  in 
an  elegant  seminary,  and,  when  approaching  middle  age, 
married  the  father  of  one  of  these,  a  troubled,  conscientious 
man  whom  the  cares  of  an  entangled  and  disintegrating 
business  kept  awake  at  night.  When  his  need  for  fem- 
inine sympathy  ceased,  and  administrators  settled  in  their 
summary  way  the  questions  that  had  furrowed  his  brow, 
his  widow's  wish  to  start  life  anew  far  from  the  scene  of 
her  worries  had  led  to  the  balmy  thought  of  Italy — Italy, 
where  were  all  the  wonders  which  had  most  glamour  for 
her  fancy. 

She  had  loved  it  in  an  undiminished  way  to  the  end, 
had  never  really  desired  to  go  home,  though  she  spoke  of 
it  sometimes  w^hen  the  chill  of  the  stone  floors  and  walls 
shook  her  fortitude,  and  the  remembrance  of  furnace  heat, 
gas-light,  hot  water  on  tap,  glowed  rosy  as  a  promise 
of  eternal  summer.  The  children,  however,  were  taught 
in  their  respective  schools  that  artificial  heat  is  insalubrious ; 
they  had  Italian  ideas  and  chilblains;  not  on  account  of 
any  creature  comfort  that  they  missed  would  Florence  have 
been  changed  back  for  Charlestown. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  163 

In  her  picturing  of  days  far  ahead  Mrs.  Fane  certainly 
saw  Lucile,  an  accomplished  young  lady,  receiving  tributes 
of  attention  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  home;  and  Gerald,  a 
young  man  of  parts,  finding  recognition  and  fortune  among 
his  countrymen.  To  go  home  eventually  was  among  her 
cloudy  plans. 

But  Lucile  died  at  sixteen,  without  adequate  cause,  one 
almost  would  have  said.  She  merely  had  not  the  rugged- 
ness,  the  resistance,  needed  to  go  on  living  among  the  rough 
winds  of  this  world.  The  mother,  a  creature  of  old-fash- 
ioned gentleness  and  profound  affections,  survived  her  by 
only  a  few  years. 

A  business  matter  then  obliged  Gerald  to  go  to  America, 
and  had  he  liked  the  place,  he  might  have  taken  up  his 
abode  there.  It  affected  him  like  vinegar  dropped  in  a 
wound,  like  street  din  heard  from  a  hospital  bed.  He 
turned  back,  and  the  long  stairs  to  his  empty  dwelling  were 
dear  and  sweet  to  him  on  the  day  of  his  return. 

This,  then,  had  remained  his  home.  His  needs  were  sim- 
ple, and  he  could  live  without  applying  himself  to  uncon- 
genial work,  though  the  allowance  had  been  stopped,  and 
the  income,  as  Leslie  had  said,  was  incredibly  small.  The 
good  Giovanna,  who  had  been  his  mother's  servant,  stayed 
on  with  her  signorinOy  and  economized  for  him ;  the  wages 
of  an  Italian  servant  were  in  those  days  no  extravagance. 
He  had  no  pleasures  that  cost  .money;  he  neither  traveled 
nor  went  to  fine  restaurants.  He  wore  neat,  old  well- 
brushed  clothes,  went  afoot,  gave  to  the  poor  single  cop- 
pers. But  he  had  liberty,  worked  when  he  pleased  and  as 
he  pleased;  he  was  content  to  be  poor,  so  long  as  his  pov- 
erty did  not  reach  the  point  where  it  involves  cutting  a 
poor  figure.     Giovanna,  prouder  than  her  master,  disliked 


164  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

the  thought  of  far  cattiva  figura  even  more  than  did  he, 
and  was  careful  in  her  household  management  to  keep  up  a 
certain  style,  never  forgetting  the  sprig  of  parsley  on  the 
platter  beside  the  single  hraciolina. 

At  one  period  he  had  contemplated  a  change  in  his  mode 
of  living,  had  dreamed  of  entering  the  contest  for  laurels 
and  gold,  so  as  to  afford  a  more  appropriate  setting  for  the 
beauty  of  his  charmer.  The  Charmer  had  attained  with- 
out need  of  him  the  setting  she  craved,  and  Gerald  went 
on  climbing  his  long  stairs,  painting  in  his  so  personal  and 
unpopular  way,  and  at  night  reading  by  light  of  a  solitary 
lamp  the  choice  and  subtle  masterpieces  of  many  litera- 
tures. 

"My  land!  shall  we  ever  get  to  the  topT'  whispered 
Aurora  to  Estelle  as,  one  behind  the  other,  sliding  their 
hands  along  the  wall,  they  felt  with  their  feet  for  the 
steps  that  led  to  Gerald's  door.  "He  told  us  they  were 
long,  and  he  warned  us  they  were  dark,  but  this!  .  .  . 
I  wonder  why  they  don't  have  a  lamp  going,  or  some- 
thing." 

"Because  there  isn't  any  image  of  the  Virgin,"  said  Es- 
telle, lightly.  "It  's  our  just  having  come  in  from  the  sun- 
shine makes  it  seem  dark.  It  's  getting  lighter.  Cheer  up  ! 
It  's  good  for  you. ' ' 

"It  '11  make  me  lose  three  pounds,  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

They  spoke  in  whispers,  because  when  they  had  pulled 
the  bell-knob  and  the  door  had  swung  open,  a  voice  from 
incalculable  altitudes  had  shouted,  ''Chi  eV  They  had 
answered,  as  instructed,  ''Amici,'*  and  now  they  pictured 
somebody  listening  to  their  shuffling  ascent. 

At  the  top,  in  fact,  stood  Giovanna,  who  regarded  them 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  165 

with  an  eye  the  color  of  strong  black  coffee  and  said, 
''Riuerisco!" 

The  small  old  woman  had  a  thin,  bronze  Dantesque  face, 
molded  by  a  thousand  indignations — all  directed  against 
proper  objects  of  indignation — to  a  settled  severity;  a  face 
of  narrow  concentrated  passions  and  perfect  fidelity  and 
a  preference  for  few  words.  The  friendly  smiles  of  Au- 
rora and  Estelle  produced  in  her  a  relenting.  Courtesy 
here  demanded  a  pleasant  look,  and  Giovanna  was  always 
courteous.  She  stood  aside  for  Gerald,  who  came  to  the 
very  door  to  welcome  these  ladies. 

The  guests  were  now  assembled.  One  of  them  was  stay- 
ing with  Gerald — Abbe  Johns,  who  had  come  for  a  few 
days  from  Leghorn,  where  he  lived.  The  others  were  Mrs. 
Foss  and  ]\Iiss  Seymour. 

What  had  been  in  Mrs.  Fane's  time  the  drawing-room 
had  since  become  also  a  studio.  The  landlord  had  per- 
mitted his  tenant  to  increase  the  light  by  extending  the 
windows  across  the  street-side  wall.  Beyond  that,  there 
were  as  few  signs  about  of  the  art-trade  as  Gerald  had 
affectations  of  the  artist.  The  model-stand  supporting 
books  and  things  appeared  like  a  low  table;  easel,  can- 
vases, portfolios,  all  the  littering  properties  of  a  painter, 
had  been  shoved  for  the  occasion  into  the  next  room,  a 
spacious  glory-hole  which  Giovanna  did  not  permit  to  be- 
come dusty  beyond  the  decent. 

The  result  of  removing,  first,  many  of  the  things  that 
made  the  room  a  drawang-room,  then,  most  of  the  things 
that  made  it  a  studio,  left  the  place  rather  bare.  It  was 
according  to  Gerald's  taste:  few  things  in  it,  each  having 
the  merit  of  either  beauty  or  interest,  else  the  excuse  of 
utility. 


166  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

Mrs.  Foss  had  waited  for  Aurora's  arrival  to  make  the 
tea.  The  feast  was  very  simple.  Gerald  offered  what  his 
mother  had  used  to  offer.  Giovanna  cut  the  bread-and- 
butter  as  that  genteel  lady  had  taught  her,  and  continued 
to  buy  the  plumcake  at  the  same  confectioner's. 

Aurora  had  come  in  from  the  sunshine  and  cold  with 
January  roses  in  her  cheeks  and  exhilaration  in  her  blood. 
At  sight  of  her  beloved  Mrs.  Foss  she  laughed  for  joy. 
She  rejoiced  also  to  see  Miss  Seymour,  who  was  one  of  her 
''likes,"  and  she  was  immensely  interested  to  meet  the 
abbe,  whom  she  knew  to  be  Gerald's  best  friend,  even  as 
Estelle  was  hers.  She  loved  Gerald  for  having  just  these 
people  to  meet  them  at  tea,  the  ones  he  himself  thought 
most  of.  She  felt  sweetly  flattered  at  being  made  one  of 
a  company  so  choicely  wise  and  good. 

But  the  result  was  not  exactly  fortunate  for  the  gaiety 
of  the  little  party,  if  Aurora's  laugh  had  been  counted 
upon  to  enliven  it.  Far  from  shy  though  she  was,  she  de- 
veloped a  disinclination  to-day  to  speak.  She  was  im- 
pressed by  the  abbe,  for  whom  her  conversation  did  not 
seem  to  her  good  enough. 

The  young  priest,  a  convert  to  Catholicism,  was  Gerald's 
age,  and  had  it  not  been  for  his  collar,  the  cut  of  his  coat, 
would  have  looked  like  a  not  at  all  unusual  Englishman 
with  blue  eyes,  curly  black  hair,  a  touch  of  warm  color 
in  his  shaven  cheeks.  Unless  you  sat  across  the  tea-table 
from  him  and  now  and  then,  while  he  quietly  and  unas- 
sumingly talked,  met  his  eyes. 

Some  persons  said  that  he  looked  ascetic,  some  austere, 
some  angelic.  Mrs.  Foss,  not  finding  the  right  adjective 
for  his  mixture  of  poise  and  humanity,  was  content  to  call 
him  charming.     Gerald,  who  had  known  him  when  they 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  167 

were  Vin  and  Raldi  to  each  other  and  e(iually  far  from 
entering  the  Church,  regarded  him  as  simply  the  nicest 
fellow  he  knew.  Aurora  had  no  definition  for  him,  but 
did  not  feel  disposed  to  ripple  on  as  usual  in  his  hearing. 
Yet  she  would  have  liked  to  make  friends  with  him,  too. 
She  would  have  said  to  him  some  such  thing  as,  *'What 
are  the  thoughts  you  have,  which  make  you  so  calm,  deep 
inside?  But  I  know.  We  learned  them  at  our  mother's 
knee,  but  in  the  fury  of  living,  having  fun,  getting  on, 
we  never  revisit  the  chamber  where  they  are  kept.  You 
live  in  it.^' 

He  was  talking  with  Estelle  like  any  other  man  whose 
conversation  should  not  contain  the  faintest  element  of 
gallantry,  and  Estelle  was  talking  to  him  with  an  ease  that 
Aurora  marveled  at.  Aurora  marveled  how  Estelle  could 
know,  or  seem  to  know,  a  lot  of  things  which  she  had  never 
before  given  sign  of  caring  about.  If  the  two  of  them  were 
not  conversing  upon  the  symbolism  of  religious  art !  Hav- 
ing finished  his  tea,  the  abbe  went  to  fetch  a  book  from 
Gerald's  shelves,  which  he  knew  as  well  as  his  own,  and 
Estelle  was  shown  reproductions  of  carvings  on  old  ca- 
thedrals. 

Mrs.  Foss,  who  had  been  talking  of  the  Carnival  now 
beginning,  telling  Aurora  about  corsi  and  coriandoli  of  the 
past  as  compared  with  the  poor  remnants  of  these  customs, 
and  describing  the  still  undiminished  glories  of  a  veglione, 
perceiving  finally  that  the  usually  merry  lady  was  on  her 
best  behavior  to  the  point  of  almost  complete  taciturnity, 
from  necessity  addressed  herself  more  directly  to  Miss  Sey- 
mour, who  shared  the  sofa  with  her;  and  from  talking  of 
veglioni  the  two  slid  into  talking  of  Florentine  affairs  more 
personal. 


168  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

The  task  of  entertaining  Mrs.  Hawthorne  thus  devolving 
upon  Gerald,  he  took  it  up  in  a  way  that  flatteringly  pre- 
supposed in  her  an  interest  in  general  questions.  His  man- 
ner seemed  to  her  very  formal.  She  forgot  that,  innocent 
as  their  relations  were,  he  yet  could  not  before  people  speak 
to  her  with  the  lack  of  ceremony  that  in  private  made  her 
feel  they  were  such  good  friends.  But  even  aside  from  this 
cool  and  correct  manner,  Gerald  seemed  to  her  different 
to-day — calmer,  more  serene,  less  needing  sympathy,  as  if 
something  of  his  friend  the  abbe  had  rubbed  off  on  to 
him. 

As  he  was  going  on,  in  language  that  reminded  her  of  a 
book,  she  interrupted  him. 

*  *  Don 't  you  want  to  show  me  your  house  ? ' ' 

"I  was  going  to  suggest  it,"  he  said  at  once.  '* There  are 
several  things  I  should  like  to  show  you.     Will  you  come  ? ' ' 

She  rose  to  follow,  losing  some  of  her  constraint. 

**It  's  what  we  always  do  on  the  Cape.  Any  one  comes 
for  the  first  time,  we  show  them  all  over  our  house." 

When  they  were  outside  the  drawing-room  door,  she  felt 
more  like  herself. 

* '  Oh,  I  'm  so  glad  I  can 't  tell  you  to  see  the  place  where 
you  live ! ' '  she  expanded. 

They  went  down  the  long  corridor,  past  a  closed  door 
which  he  disappointingly  did  not  open. 

'*It  's  a  dark  room  we  use  to  store  things,"  he  explained. 
Neither  did  he  open  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  hall.  ^*It  's 
Vincent's  room,"  he  said. 

They  turned  into  the  darker,  narrower  corridor,  bent 
again,  and  went  toward  the  little  window  high  over  some- 
body else's  garden.  He  ushered  Mrs.  Hawthorne  into  the 
kitchen,  for  here,  near  the  ceiling,  was  the  door-bell,  and  on 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  169 

it  the  well-known  coat  of  arms,  crown  and  cannon-balls, 
which  testified  to  the  age  and  aristocracy  of  the  house. 

While  he  sought  to  interest  her  in  this  curiosity,  Aurora 
was  looking  at  everything  besides;  for  Giovanna  was  mak- 
ing preparations  for  dinner,  and  Aurora's  thoughts  were 
busy  with  the  fowl  she  saw  run  on  a  long  spit  and  waiting 
to  be  roasted  before  a  bundle  of  sticks  at  the  back  of  the 
sort  of  masonry  counter  that  served  as  kitchen  stove. 

^  *  They  do  have  the  queerest  ways  of  doing  things ! ' '  she 
murmured. 

He  took  her  across  the  passage  and  into  the  dining-room. 
He  wished  to  show  her  an  old  china  tea-set,  quaintly  em- 
bellished with  noble  palaces  and  parks,  that  had  been  his 
great-grandmother's.  There  again  she  looked  but  casually 
at  the  thing  he  accounted  fit  for  her  examination,  and  care- 
fully, if  surreptitiously,  at  all  the  rest. 

Last  he  showed  her  into  the  great  square  interior  room 
with  the  glass  door  on  to  the  terrace  over  the  court,  the 
room  which  had  been  his  mother's  and  was  now  his  own, 
and  where  hung  a  portrait  of  his  mother.  On  this  Aurora 
fixed  attentive  and  serious  eyes,  and  had  no  need  to  feign 
feeling,  for  appropriate  feelings  welled  in  her  heart. 

''How  gentle  she  looks!"  she  said  softly.  ''And  how 
much  you  must  miss  her ! ' ' 

She  stood  for  some  time  really  trying  to  make  acquaint- 
ance with  the  vanished  woman  through  that  faded  pastel 
likeness  of  her  in  youth  which  Gerald  kept  where  it  had 
hung  in  her  day,  the  portrait  of  herself  which  she  woman- 
ishly preferred  because,  as  she  did  not  conceal,  it  flattered 
her. 

"She  looks  like  one  of  those  people  you  would  have  just 
loved  to  lift  the  burdens  ofT  and  make  everything  smooth 


170  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

for,"  Aurora  said;  *'and  yet  she  looks  like  one  of  those 
people  who  spend  their  whole  lives  trying  to  make  things 
smooth  for  others." 

*'Yes,"  said  Gerald  to  that  artless  description  of  the 
feminine  woman  his  mother  had  been,  and  stood  beside  his 
guest,  looking  pensively  up  at  the  portrait. 

All  at  once,  Aurora  felt  like  crying.  It  had  been  in- 
creasing, the  oppression  to  her  spirits,  ever  since  she  en- 
tered this  house  to  which  she  had  come  filled  with  gay  an- 
ticipation and  innocent  curiosity.  It  had  struck  her  from 
the  first  moment  as  gloomy,  and  it  was  undoubtedly  cold, 
with  its  three  sticks  of  wood  ceremoniously  smoking  in  the 
unaccustomed  chimney-place.  Its  esthetic  bareness  had  af- 
fected her  like  the  meagerness  of  poverty.  And  now  it 
seemed  to  her  sad,  horribly  so,  haunted  by  the  gentle  ghosts 
of  that  mother  and  sister  who  had  known  and  touched 
all  these  things,  sat  in  the  chairs,  looked  through  the  win- 
dows, and  who  conceivably  came  back  in  the  twilight  to 
flit  over  the  uncarpeted  floor  and  peer  in  the  dim  mirrors 
to  see  how  much  the  grave  had  changed  them.  She  shiv- 
ered. Yes,  cold  and  bare  and  sad  seemed  Gerald's  dwell- 
ing. And  Gerald,  whose  very  bearing  was  a  dignified  de- 
nial that  anything  about  himself  or  his  circumstances  could 
call  for  compassion — Gerald,  thin  and  without  color,  looked 
to  her  cold-pinched  and  under-nourished.  She  had  a  sense 
of  his  long  evenings  alone,  drearily  without  fire,  his  soli- 
tary meals  in  that  dining-room  so  unsuggestive  of  good 
cheer;  she  thought  of  that  single  candle  on  the  night-table 
burning  in  this  cold,  large  room  where  he  went  to  bed  in 
that  bed  of  iron,  laying  his  head  on  that  small  hair  pillow, 
to  dream  bitter  dreams  of  a  fair  girl's  treachery. 

She  wanted  to  turn  to  him  protesting: 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  171 

''Oh,  I  can't  stand  it!     What  makes  you  do  it?" 

His  next  words  changed  the  current  of  her  thoughts. 

'*I  have  another  portrait  of  my  mother,"  he  said;  **one 
I  painted,  which  I  will  show  you  if  you  care  to  see  it." 

She  cheered  up. 

"  Do !  do ! "  she  urged  heartily.  "  I  'm  crazy  to  see  some- 
thing you  've  painted." 

''You  won't  care  for  my  painting,"  he  pronounced  with- 
out hesitation;  "but  the  portrait  gives  a  good  idea  of  my 
mother,  I  think,  when  she  was  older  than  this." 

They  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  where  their  friends 
were  in  the  same  way  engaged  as  when  they  left  them. 
One  pair  was  looking  at  a  large  illustrated  book ;  the  other 
two  sat  leaning  toward  each  other  talking  in  undertones. 

"The  bird  which  you  see,"  the  abbe  was  saying,  "with 
the  smaller  birds  crowding  around  him,  is  a  pelican.  The 
pelican,  you  know,  who  opens  his  breast  to  feed  his  young, 
is  a  symbol  of  the  Church." 

"It's  not  true,  though,  that  the  pelican  does  that," 
Estelle  was  on  the  point  of  saying  with  American  freedom, 
"any  more  than  that  a  scorpion  surrounded  by  fire  com- 
mits suicide.  I  read  it  in  a  Sunday  paper  where  a  lot  of 
old  superstitions  were  exploded."  But  she  tactfully  did 
nothing  of  the  sort.  She  appeared  instructed  and  im- 
pressed. 

What  Miss  Sejonour  was  saying  to  Mrs.  Foss  would  have 
sounded  a  little  singular  to  any  one  overhearing.  The  two 
women  had  been  friends  for  years,  but  never  come  so  near 
to  each  other  as,  it  chanced,  they  did  that  afternoon,  when 
all  fell  so  favorably  for  a  heart  to  heart  talk. 

' '  I  feel  as  if  I  had  lost  a  key ! ' '  said  Miss  Seymour,  and 
looked  like  a  bewildered  princess  turned  old  by  a  wicked 


172  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

fairy's  spell.  ''When  I  possessed  it  I  thought  nothing  of 
it.  It  opened  all  the  doors,  but  I  did  n  't  know  what  it  was 
made  them  so  easy  to  open.  Only  now,  when  it  's  gone, 
I  know  the  value  of  that  little  golden  key." 

**I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Foss,  sympathetically.  ''There  's 
no  use  in  us  women  pretending  we  don 't  mind !  Those  who 
really  and  truly  don't  must  be  great  philosophers  or  great 
fools,  or  else  selfless  to  a  degree  that  is  rarer  even  than 
philosophy.  ..." 

Gerald  and  Aurora  crossed  the  room  unbailed  and  en- 
tered the  room  beyond,  where  dusty  canvases,  many  deep, 
stood  face  to  the  wall. 

He  found  the  unframed  painting  of  his  mother  and 
placed  it  on  the  easel.  The  short  winter  day  was  waning, 
but  near  the  window  where  the  easel  stood  there  was  still 
light  enough  to  see  by. 

Aurora  looked  a  long  time  without  saying  anything; 
Gerald  did  not  speak  either.  After  the  length  of  time  one 
allows  for  the  examination  of  a  picture,  he  took  away  that 
one  and  put  another  in  its  place;  and  so  on  until  he  had 
shown  her  a  dozen. 

*'I  don^t  know  what  to  say,"  she  finally  got  out,  as  if 
from  under  a  crushing  burden  of  difficulty  to  express  her- 
self. 

*' Please  don't  try!"  he  begged  quickly.  "And  please 
not  to  care  a  bit  if  you  don't  like  them." 

She  let  out  her  breath  as  at  the  easing  of  a  strain.  He 
heard  it. 

"I  won't  be  so  offensive,"  he  went  on,  "as  to  say  that  in 
not  liking  them  you  merely  add  yourself  to  the  majority, 
nor  yet  that  my  feelings  are  in  no  wise  hurt  by  your  fail- 
ure to  like  them.     But  I  do  wish  you  to  know  that  I  think 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  173 

it  a  sin  and  a  shame  to  get  a  person  like  you,  who  can't 
pretend  a  bit,  before  a  lot  of  beastly  canvases  inevitably 
repugnant  to  your  mood  and  temperament,  and  make  you 
uncomfortable  with  the  feeling  that  compliments  are  ex- 
pected.'' 

"All  right,  then;  I  won't  tell  any  lies."  She  added  in 
a  sigh,  *'I  did  want  so  much  to  like  them!" 

And  he  would  never  know  what  shining  bubble  burst 
there.  She  had  wanted  so  much,  as  she  said,  to  like  them, 
and,  as  she  did  not  say,  to  buy  some  of  them,  a  great  many 
of  them,  and  make  him  rich  with  her  gold. 

He  replied  to  her  sigh : 

"You  are  very  kind." 

After  a  moment  spent  gazing  at  the  last  painting  placed 
on  the  easel,  as  if  she  hoped  tardily  to  discover  some  merit 
in  it,  she  said : 

"I  don't  know  a  thing  about  painting,  so  nothing  I  could 
say  about  your  way  of  doing  it  could  matter  one  way  or  the 
other.  But  I  have  eyes  to  see  the  way  things  and  people 
look.  Tell  me,  now,  honest  Injun,  do  they  look  that  way 
to  you — the  way  you  paint  them  ? ' ' 

He  laughed. 

"Mrs.  Hawthorne,  no!  Emphatically,  no.  And  em- 
phatically yes.  When  I  look  at  them  as  you  do,  in  the 
street,  across  the  table,  they  look  to  me  probably  just  as 
they  do  to  you;  but  when  I  sit  down  to  paint  them — yes, 
they  look  to  me  as  I  have  shown  them  looking  in  these  por- 
traits." 

"But  they're  so  sad!  So  sad  it's  cruel!"  she  ob- 
jected. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  objected  to  her  objection;  "it  's  not  quite 
a:^  bad  as  that." 


174  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

''They  make  me  perfectly  miserable." 

He  whipped  the  canvas  off  the  easel,  saying  dryly: 

''Don't  think  of  them  again!" 

It  looked  like  impatience.  With  hands  thrust  in  his 
pockets  he  took  a  purposeless  half -turn  in  the  room,  then 
came  back  to  her  side. 

"If  you  totally  detest  them,  I  am  sorry,"  he  said  mildly. 
' '  I  had  wanted  to  offer  you  one,  a  little,  unobtrusive  one  to 
stick  in  some  corner,  a  token  of  the  artist's  regard." 

"Oh,  do!  do!"  she  grasped  at  his  friendly  tender. 
"Find  a  little  cheerful  one,  if  you  can.  I  shall  love  to 
have  it." 

He  selected  a  small  panel  of  a  single  tall,  palely  expand- 
ing garden  poppy,  more  gray  than  violet,  against  a  back- 
ground of  shade.  Flower  though  it  was,  it  still  affected 
one  like  the  portrait  of  a  lady  wronged  and  suffering. 

In  the  drawing-room  to  which  they  returned  Giovanna 
had  lighted  a  lamp.  The  fire  had  properly  caught  and  was 
burning  more  brightly;  the  place  looked  rosy  and  warm, 
after  the  winter  twilight  filling  the  other  room  and  the 
chill  that  reigned  there. 

Aurora  returned  to  the  tea-table ;  with  a  disengaged  air 
she  reached  for  plum-cake.  She  ascertained  with  comfort 
that  Mrs.  Foss  did  not  look  sad  or  Estelle  ill  used ;  that  the 
abbe  was  as  serene  as  ever  and  Miss  Seymour,  after  her 
talk  with  Mrs.  Foss,  rather  serener  than  usual.  Gerald  was 
far  jollier  than  any  of  his  portraits.  To  make  sure  that  she 
was  no  depressing  object  herself,  she  smiled  the  warmest, 
sunniest  smile  she  was  capable  of. 

"Do  come  and  talk  a  little  bit  with  me,  before  I  have  to 
go  home ! ' '  she  unexpectedly  called  out  to  the  abbe. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  175 

When  at  the  end  of  the  long  evening  spent  together 
smoking  and  talking  the  two  friends  separated  for  the 
night,  Gerald  went  to  his  room  as  did  Vincent  to  his.  But 
Gerald  had  no  more  than  pulled  off  his  necktie  when  he 
changed  his  mind,  went  back  to  the  drawing-room,  crossed 
the  tobacco-scented  space  where  something  seemed  to  linger 
of  the  warmth  of  goodfellowship,  and  entered  the  farther 
room. 

A  doubt  had  risen  in  his  mind.  He  could  not  wait  till 
morning  to  see  his  work  with  a  fresh  eye,  an  eye  as  fresh 
as  Mrs.  Hawthorne's,  and  satisfy  himself  as  to  whether  he, 
so  careful  of  truth,  had  unconsciously  come  to  exaggerat- 
ing, falsifying  his  impressions,  grown  guilty  of  hollow 
mannerisms. 

Whatever  he  had  said,  he  had  been  stung  by  Mrs.  Haw- 
thorne's  liking  his  paintings  so  little.  It  was  easy  to  con- 
sole oneself  remembering  the  poor  lady's  ignorance  of  art. 
The  truth  might  be  that  something  was  wrong  with  the 
pictures,  which  suspicion  had  driven  the  artist  to  go  and 
have  a  dispassionate  look  at  them  in  the  frigid  hour  be- 
tween twelve  and  one  of  the  night.  If  a  person  is  on  the 
way  to  becoming  a  morbid  ass  he  cannot  find  it  out  too  soon. 

Gerald's  dogma  was  that  the  first  duty  of  a  picture  is 
to  be  beautiful.  His  critics  did  not  give  sufficient  atten- 
tion to  that  aspect  of  his  work,  he  privately  thought ;  they 
were  put  off  by  what  they  mistakenly  called  its  queerness, 
its  mere  difference  from  the  academic,  the  conventional. 
This  was  bitter,  because  he  had  always  so  loved  beautiful 
lines,  beautiful  tints,  had  insisted  that  the  very  texture 
of  his  painting  should  have  the  beauty  of  fine-grained  skin. 

He  was  no  conspicuous  colorist,  of  course,  he  did  not  by 


176  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

temperament  revel  in  the  glow  of  rich,  bold,  endlessly 
varied  tints.  It  was  a  limitation,  which  his  work  naturally 
reflected.  This  was  marked  in  fact  by  modesty  and  mel- 
ancholy of  color-scheme.  But  that  did  not  interfere  with 
beauty,  he  maintained.  He  had  been  thrilled  by  the  dis- 
covery in  the  Siena  gallery  of  an  old  master  with  the  same 
predilections  as  he,  an  antipathy  apparently  to  the  vivid, 
crying,  self-assertive  colors,  which  he  accordingly  vnth 
admirable  simplicity  left  out,  and  interpreted  the  world 
all  in  blues  and  greens,  grays  and  violets,  whites  of  many 
degrees  and  tones  and  meanings. 

* '  They  're  so  sad  that  it  's  cruel ! ' '  Mrs.  Hawthorne  had 
voiced  the  instinctive  objection  of  her  earth -loving,  life- 
praising  disposition  to  the  view  he  took  of  people  and 
things.  But  what  was  there  to  do  about  it?  When  he 
looked  at  a  sitter  to  render  his  personality  sincerely,  that 
was  the  way  he  saw  him.  If  he  had  been  limited  to  render- 
ing a  human  being  in  the  single  aspect  he  wore  while  walk- 
ing from  the  drawing-room  to  the  dinner-table  with  a  lady 
on  his  arm  and  a  rich  meal  in  prospect,  he  would  have  given 
up  painting,  it  interested  him  so  little.  Most  of  the  por- 
trait-painters in  vogue  did  thus  paint  the  surface  and  noth- 
ing besides.  Gerald  had  no  envy  of  their  large  fees  at 
the  price  of  such  boredom  as  he  would  have  suffered  in 
their  place. 

He  held  a  canvas  to  the  light  of  his  candle.  It  was  an 
old  one  of  Amabel.  She  had  not  been  sitting  for  him,  he 
had  made  this  sketch  from  a  distance  while  she  worked  on 
her  side.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  the  room  was  cold,  that 
the  woman  with  the  pinched  aristocratic  nose,  the  little 
shawl  over  her  shoulders,  was  poor,  determined  and  anx- 
ious.    If  Mrs.  Foss  had  said,  ''But  Amabel  never  was  as 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  177 

hollow-cheeked  as  that,  nor  ever  looked  pathetic  in  the 
least,"  Gerald  could  only  have  answered,  ''I  swear  to  you 
this  is  how  she  looked  to  me  on  that  day." 

He  studied  the  portrait  of  his  mother,  one  of  his  earliest, 
bad  in  a  way,  but  excellent  in  the  matter  of  likeness.  His 
mother  no  more  than  Amabel  had  been  a  pathetic  person, 
Mrs.  Foss  would  certainly  have  said.  To  which  Gerald 
might  have  answered  that  she  was  not  so  during  an  after- 
noon call ;  but  that  the  most  characteristic  thing  about  that 
gentle  and  delicate  woman  had  been  the  fact  of  her  living 
so  much  in  the  life  of  others  and  being  open  to  endless  sor- 
rows through  them.  The  dim  affectionate  eyes,  the  depre- 
cating half-smile  of  his  mother,  engaged  sympathy  for  the 
unfair  plight. 

Last,  he  took  up  a  portrait  of  Violet.  She  had  been  in 
the  perfection  of  young  beauty;  she  had  had  no  capacity 
for  deep  feeling,  really, — why  did  an  aroma  of  sadness  es- 
cape from  that  dainty  colored  shadow  of  her?  Why,  but 
because  of  the  artist's  yearning  sense  that  beauty  is  transi- 
tory, and  the  loveliest  girl  subject  to  destiny,  and  the  future 
full  of  pitfalls  for  the  fragility  of  all  flesh ! 

''Imagine  a  barnyard  fowl,  a  common  white  hen  peeking 
among  the  gravel,"  Gerald  once  illustrated  his  view-point, 
"and  imagine  hovering  over  it  a  hawk,  which  it  hasn't 
seen.  Does  it  make  no  difference  in  your  sense  of  the  hen 
that  you  see  the  hawk?" 

*'It  comes  to  this,"  Leslie  on  a  certain  occasion  summed 
up  Gerald's  case:  ''Gerald  isn't  satisfied  to  paint  the  thing 
that  's  before  him.  All  he  cares  to  paint  is  the  soul  of 
things,  and  what  you  finally  see  expressed  on  the  canvas 
is  his  pity  for  everything  that  has  the  misfortune  to  be 
born  into   an  unsatisfactory  world.     Gerald   can't   see   a 


178  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

thing  as  being  common:  tlie  moment  he  narrows  his  eyes 
to  look  for  purposes  of  art,  it  becomes  to  him  exceptional, 
unique.  I  asked  him  once,  as  a  joke,  to  paint  me  a  simple, 
large,  bright  orange  squash,  in  a  field.  And  he  did.  A 
masterpiece.  One  can't  say  that  the  squash  isn't  large, 
orange,  and  true  to  life.  But  what  a  squash!  It  has  an 
amount  of  personal  distinction,  an  air  of  rarity  and  re- 
moteness, that  would  make  you  think  twice,  nay,  three 
times,  before  making  such  a  precious  product  of  the  sacred 
earth  into  pies!" 

When  he  was  chilled  through  and  his  hands  were  numb, 
Gerald  remembered  to  pick  up  his  candle  and  go  to  bed. 
No  change  of  opinion,  it  is  needless  to  say,  had  resulted 
from  his  midnight  inquiry. 

A  point  of  natural  spite  made  him  say  that  he  did  not 
ask  people  to  like  his  pictures.  All  he  asked  was  permis- 
sion to  go  on  painting  as  he  pleased,  obscure  and  independ- 
ent, the  sincere  apostle  of  a  peculiar  creed,  working  out 
his  problems  with  conscience  and  fidelity.  If  fate  might 
send  him  critics  whose  opinion  he  valued  he  would  be  prop- 
erly grateful.  He  felt  the  need  of  criticism  and  compan- 
ionship in  his  work,  but  had  no  regard  for  his  fellow 
artists  in  Florence.  His  thoughts  turned  sometimes  with 
envy  toward  Paris,  w^here  modern  art  had  some  vitality, 
and  artist  life  the  advantage  of  stimulating  associations. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  talk  at  the  time,  and  some  deri- 
sion, of  a  new  phase  called  impressionism,  whose  chief  seat 
was  Paris. 

As  for  the  opinion  of  such  a  person  as  Mrs.  Hawthorne, 
it  obviously  had  no  value.  But  while  the  artist  could  brush 
her  aside  in  the  character  of  critic,  it  remained  a  little 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  179 

galling  to  the  man  to  know  he  figured  in  her  mind  as  a 
painter  who  did  not  know  how  to  paint. 

"Can't  paint  for  sour  apples!"  he  seemed  to  hear  her 
reporting  to  Estelle,  and  got  in  his  mouth  the  taste  of 
the  apples. 


CHAPTER  XI 

WHEN  Gerald  asked  Mrs.  Hawthorne  to  sit  for 
him,  she  stared  in  his  face  without  a  word. 
''Don't  be  afraid,"  he  hastened  to  reassure 
her ;  "  I  engage  to  paint  a  portrait  you  will  like. ' ' 

She  felt  herself  blush  for  the  dismay  she  had  not  been 
able  to  conceal,  and  to  hide  this  embarrassment  she  lifted 
to  her  face — not  the  handkerchief  or  the  bouquet  with 
which  beauty  is  wont  to  cover  the  telltale  signal  in  the 
cheek,  but  a  wee  dog,  as  white  as  a  handkerchief  and  no 
less  sweet  than  a  bouquet.  She  rubbed  her  nose  fond- 
lingly  in  the  soft  silk  of  his  breast,  while,  tickled,  he  tried, 
with  baby  growls  and  an  exposure  of  sharp  pin  teeth,  to 
get  a  bite  at  it. 

Gerald  looked  on  with  simple  pleasure.  Because  he  had 
given  Aurora  that  dog.  On  the  day  of  making  a  scene 
because  she  was  to  receive  a  dog  from  Hunt  he  had  set 
to  work  to  find  one  for  her  himself,  the  prior  possession 
of  which  would  make  it  natural  to  decline  Charlie's,  if,  as 
Gerald  doubted,  Charlie's  offer  had  been  anj^thing  more 
than  facile  compliment.  And  now,  instead  of  the  torment 
to  his  nerves  of  seeing  her  fondle  and  kiss  a  brute  of  Char- 
lie's, he  had  the  not  disagreeable  spectacle  of  her  pressing 
to  her  warm  and  rosy  face  an  animal  that  related  her 
caresses,  even  if  loosely  and  distantly,  to  a  less  unworthy 
object.  Sour  and  sad,  dried  up  and  done  with  women,  a 
man  still  has  feelings. 

180 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  181 

It  would  be  unfair  not  to  add  that  something  better 
than  primeval  jealousy  actuated  Gerald,  at  the  same  time 
as,  no  doubt,  some  tincture  of  that.  A  sort  of  impersonal 
delicacy  made  the  idea  disagreeable  to  him  of  a  dear,  nice 
woman  cherishing  with  the  foolish  fondness  such  persons 
bestow  on  their  pets  the  gift  of  a  friend  whom  she,  in  tak- 
ing his  loyalty  for  granted,  overrated,  as  he  thought. 

The  dog  he  had  selected  to  present  to  her  belonged  to  a 
breed  for  which  he  had  respect  as  well  as  affection,  credit- 
ing to  Maltese  terriers,  besides  all  the  sterling  dog  virtues, 
a  discretion,  a  fineness  of  feeling,  rare  enough  among  hu- 
mans. That  Gerald  kept  no  dog  was  due  to  the  fact  that 
he  was  still  under  the  impression  of  the  illness  and  death  of 
his  last,  Lucile's  pet  and  his  mother's,  who  had  been  his 
companion  until  a  year  or  two  before,  a  senile,  self -con- 
trolled little  personage  of  the  Maltese  variety. 

Having  decided  to  give  Mrs.  Hawthorne  a  dog,  Gerald 
had  spent  some  hours  watching  the  several  components  of 
one  litter  as  they  disported  themselves  in  the  flagged  court 
of  a  peasant  house,  and  had  fixed  upon  one  dusty  ball  of 
fluff  rather  than  another  upon  solid  indications  of  char- 
acter. 

Snowy  after  strenuous  purifications  at  the  hands  of  Gio- 
vanna,  sweet-smelling  from  the  pinch  of  orris  powder 
rubbed  in  his  fur,  and  brave  with  a  cherry  ribbon,  he  was 
taken  from  the  breast  of  Gerald's  overcoat  and  deposited 
in  the  hands  of  Aurora,  whose  delight  expressed  itself  in 
sounds  suggestive  of  an  ogreish  craving  to  eat  the  little 
beast,  interspersed  with  endearments  of  dim  import,  such 
as,  * '  Diddums !  Wasums !  Tiddledewinkums ! ' '  Estelle  's 
did  the  same.  There  was  no  difference  in  the  affection  the 
two  instantly  bestowed   on   this   dog.     Aurora   remarked 


182  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

later  on  that  Busteretto  could  n  't  be  blamed  for  not  know- 
ing which  was  his  mother. 

Sensitively  timid,  yet  bold  in  his  half  dozen  inches  with 
curiosity  of  life  and  the  exuberant  gladness  of  youth,  Bus- 
teretto could  frisk  and  he  could  tremble.  He  was  cowed 
by  the  sight  of  fearful  things,  beetles  and  big  dogs,  but 
next  moment,  with  budding  valor,  would  dash  to  investi- 
gate them.  He  twinkled  when  he  ran,  his  bark  lifted  him 
off  his  four  feet.  Withal  something  exquisite  marked  him 
even  among  Maltese  puppies,  which  Aurora  felt  without 
art  to  define  it.  She  said  he  reminded  her  of  the  new  moon 
when  it  is  no  bigger  than  a  finger-nail.  If  with  the  tip 
of  his  rose-petal  tongue  he  laid  the  lick  of  fondness  and 
approval  on  the  end  of  your  nose,  you  felt  two  things :  that 
the  salute  had  come  directed  by  the  purest  heart-guidance, 
and  that  the  nose  had  something  about  it  subtly  right.  You 
were  flattered. 

When  Gerald  encouraged  Mrs.  Hawthorne  to  decide  for 
herself  how  she  should  like  to  be  painted,  with  what  habili- 
ments, appurtenances  and  surroundings,  she  decided  first 
of  all  to  have  Busteretto  on  her  lap, — but  that  was  after- 
ward given  up:  he  wiggled.  Then  her  white  ostrich  fan 
in  her  hand,  her  pearls  around  her  neck,  her  diamond 
stars  in  her  hair,  a  cluster  of  roses  at  her  corsage,  her  best 
dress  on,  and  an  opera-cloak  thrown  over  the  back  of  her 
chair. 

Catching,  as  she  thought,  a  look  of  irony  on  Gerald's 
face,  she  had  a  return  of  suspicion. 

''See  here,"  she  said,  observing  him  narrowly,  ''there  's 
no  trick  about  this,  is  there?" 

"Not  the  shadow  of  one.  Please  trust  me,  Mrs.  Haw- 
thorne.    This  is  to  be  a  portrait  entirely  satisfactory  as 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  183 

well  as  entirely  resembling.  It  is  like  you  to  desire  to  be 
painted  with  your  plumes  and  pearls  and  roses,  and  they 
are  very  becoming.  I  shall  put  them  in  with  pleasure.  I 
know  you  do  not  believe  I  can  paint  a  portrait  to  suit  you. 
Very  well.  Grant  me  the  favor  of  a  chance  to  try.  We 
shall  see." 

It  was  true  that  she  did  not  believe  it,  but  she  was  so 
willing  to  hope.  One  of  the  up-stairs  rooms  at  the  back 
was  chosen  for  the  sittings  because  the  light  through  its 
windows  was  the  least  variable.  The  necessary  artist's 
baggage  was  brought  over  from  Gerald's,  and  the  work 
began. 

Charcoal  in  hand,  he  regarded  Mrs.  Hawthorne  quietly 
and  lengthily  through  half-closed  eyes. 

''You  have  not  one  good  feature,"  he  said,  as  if  think- 
ing aloud. 

''Oh!" — she  started  out  of  the  pose  they  had  after  much 
experimenting  decided  upon — "oh!  is  that  the  way  you  're 
going  to  pay  me  for  keeping  still  on  a  chair  by  the 
hour?" 

"You  have  no  eyebrows  to  speak  of." 

"What  do  you  mean?  Yes,  I  have,  too;  lots  of  them; 
lovely  ones.  Only  they  don't  show  up.  They  're  fair,  to 
match  my  hair." 

"You  are  undershot." 

"What  's  that?" 

"Your  lower  jaw  closes  outside  of  your  upper." 

"Oh,  but  so  little!  Just  enough  to  take  the  curse  off  an 
otherwise  too  perfect  beauty." 

As  she  curled  up  the  corners  of  her  mouth  in  an  affected 
smirk,  he  quickly  shifted  his  glance,  with  a  horrible  sus- 
picion that  she  was  crossing  her  eyes.     As  she  had  pro- 


184  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

nounced  the  word  perfect  "parfect,'^  he  presumed  that  she 
was  making  herself  look,  for  the  remainder,  like  Antonia. 
It  was  her  latest  vaudeville  turn,  imitating  Antonia.  He 
was  careful  not  to  look  again  in  her  direction  until  she 
had  stopped  doing  what  annoyed  him  furiously.  He  could 
not  hope  to  make  her  understand  to  what  point  the  de- 
basing of  beauty  to  brutal  comic  uses  wounded  him. 

"Faultless  features,"  he  went  on  after  a  time,  in  com- 
mentary on  his  earlier  remark,  "do  not  by  any  means 
always  make  a  beautiful  face, ' '  politely  leading  her  to  sup- 
pose he  meant  that  to  be  without  them  was  no  great  mis- 
fortune. 

Estelle  came  into  the  room  for  company.  She  brought 
her  sewing,  one  of  those  elegant  pieces  of  handiwork  that 
give  to  idleness  a  good  conscience.  Gerald  felt  her  deli- 
cately try  to  get  acquainted  with  him.  She  was  not  as 
altogether  void  of  intellectual  curiosity  as  her  friend.  She 
would  seem  to  care  about  discovering  further  what  sort  of 
man  he  was  mentally,  what  his  ideas  were  on  a  variety  of 
subjects.  Also,  but  even  more  delicately,  to  interest  him, 
just  a  little  bit,  in  her  own  self  and  ideas. 

He  was  grateful  to  her,  and  did  what  he  could  to  show 
himself  responsive.  With  the  portrait  began  the  period 
of  a  less  perfunctory  relation  between  them.  They  had 
talks  sometimes  that  Aurora  declared,  without  trace  of  envy, 
were  'way  above  her  head. 

Estelle  was  waking  to  an  interest  in  the  art  and  history 
of  the  Old  World.  She  was  "reading  up"  on  these  things. 
She  was  also  "working  at"  her  French,  and  would  in  a 
little  systematic  way  she  had  excuse  herself  at  the  same 
hour  daily,  saying  she  must  go  and  get  her  lessons.  Not 
feeling  quite  the  enterprise  to  study  two  languages  at  one 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  185 

time,  she  had  given  the  preference  to  French,  as  being  the 
more  generally  useful  in  Europe. 

Gerald  now  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  new  member 
of  the  household.  She  came  into  the  room  bearing  a  small 
tray  with  a  hot- water  pot  and  a  cup.  She  took  this  to 
Aurora,  who  helped  herself  to  plain  hot  water,  explaining: 

''I  am  trying  to  'redooce.'  This  is  good  for  what  ails 
me,  they  say.  But  I  could  never  in  the  world  think  of  it. 
Clotilde  thinks  of  it  for  me,  and  she  's  that  punctual ! 
Clotilde,  you  're  too  punctual  with  this  stuff.  You  don't 
suppose  I  like  it?" 

''But  think,  Madame,  of  the  sylph's  form  that  it  will 
give  you!"  replied  Clotilde,  in  respectably  good  English. 

'*I  do  think  of  it.  Give  me  another  cup.  Mr.  Fane, 
this  is  Miss — ^no,  I  won't  launch  on  that  name.  It  's  Italo's 
sister,  who  has  saved  our  lives  and  become  our  greatest 
blessing. ' ' 

Clotilde  exposed  in  smiling  a  fine  array  of  white  teeth. 
She  was  not  at  all  like  her  brother,  but  well-grown,  white 
and  pink  beneath  her  neat  head-dress  of  crisp  black  hair. 
She  impressed  Gerald  as  belonging  to  a  different  and  better 
class.  If  she  were  vulgar,  it  was  at  least  not  in  the  same 
way.  She  appeared  like  that  paradox,  a  lady  of  the  work- 
ing-class, with  a  distinguishing  air  of  capability,  good 
humor,  and  openness.  The  latter  Gerald  was  not  disposed 
absolutely  to  trust,  but  he  was  glad  to  trust  all  the  rest. 

No  sooner  had  she  left  the  room  than  Aurora  and  Estelle 
in  one  voice  started  telling  him  about  her.  He  learned  that 
she  and  Italo  were  not  what  they  called  ''own"  brother 
and  sister,  but  only  half.  Their  father,  being  left  by  the 
death  of  his  wife  with  a  young  family  on  his  hands,  had 
in  feeble  despair  married  the  cook,  become  the  father  of 


186  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

one  more  child,  and  died.  Italo  was  that  latest  born.  The 
children  of  the  first  wife  had  then  been  taken  by  her  folks, 
while  their  step-mother  retained  her  own  chick,  assisted 
from  a  distance  by  the  prouder  portion  of  the  family  to 
educate  and  give  him  a  trade.  He  had  chosen  an  art  in- 
stead, and  by  it  was  rising  in  the  world.  There  had  been 
published  a  waltz  of  his  composing,  dedicated  by  permis- 
sion to  a  name  with  a  coronet  over  it.  He  lived  with  and 
supported  his  good  soul  of  a  mother,  and  saw  something  of 
his  half -brethren,  all  of  them  through  lack  of  fortune  con- 
demned to  small  ways  of  life,  like  himself. 

Clotilde,  the  best-hearted,  was  his  favorite  and  he  hers. 
She  recognized  his  gifts,  she  further  regarded  him  as  a  man 
of  spirit,  or  wit. 

''It  must  be,''  reflected  Gerald,  "that  the  fellow  can  stir 
up  a  laugh." 

He  knew  him  only  as  a  fixture  at  the  piano,  but  could 
well  accommodate  the  idea  of  a  species  of  buffoonery  to 
that  boldly  jutting  nose  of  his.  He  fancied  that  maldi- 
cenza,  gossip  further  spiced  with  backbiting,  would  form 
the  chief  baggage  of  his  wit.  If  he  possessed  sharp  ears, 
his  opportunities  for  picking  up  knowledge  of  other 
people's  affairs  were  certainly  unusual.  He  passed  from 
house  to  house,  playing  accompaniments,  drumming  for 
dancing,  so  insignificant  on  his  screw-stool  that  many  no 
doubt  talked  before  him  as  if  nobody  had  been  there. 

Gerald  did  not  dislike  Ceccherelli,  really,  only  had  him 
on  his  nerves  in  relation  to  Aurora.  He  felt  him,  indeed,, 
rather  likeable  at  a  distance,  as  part  of  a  story ;  he  had  the 
good  point  of  being  an  individual.  Gerald  was  in  general 
touched  to  benevolence  at  sight  of  a  poor  devil  elated  by  his 
little  draught  of  success.     To  Ceccherelli  without  a  doubt 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  187 

the  patronage  of  the  wealthy  American  represented  success. 
Ceccherelli  pulling  out  his  gold  watch  was  a  disarming 
vision. 

Gerald  cherished  a  hope,  born  of  curiosity,  that  he  might 
witness  some  exhibition  of  Ceccherelli 's  spirito,  or  wit,  and 
upon  an  evening  when  the  pianist  dropped  in  after  dinner 
was  on  the  alert  for  manifestations.  .  .  . 

It  may  here  be  inserted  that  upon  being  asked  to  remain 
for  dinner  Gerald  had  artfully  delayed  answering  until  he 
had  made  sure  that  Clotilde  did  not  dine  with  the  ladies. 
Their  familiarity  had  made  him  fear  it.  Highly  as  he 
was  prepared  to  esteem  Clotilde,  the  meal  would,  with  her 
making  the  fourth,  have  lost  for  him  those  points  on  ac- 
count of  which  he  prized  it.  But  he  gathered  that  she 
found  it  more  convenient  to  take  her  meals  in  private.  In 
rejoicing  for  himself,  he  rejoiced  also  for  her,  eating  in  holy 
peace,  as  he  pictured  her  doing,  the  dishes  of  her  country, 
cooked  with  oil  and  onion ;  pouring  the  wine  of  her  country 
from  a  good  fat  flask  such  as  never  found  its  place  on  the 
table  of  the  strangers. 

To  go  back :  Gerald  when  after  dinner  the  pianist  came 
to  make  music  for  the  ladies,  was  hoping  for  some  example 
of  that  brightness  for  which  he  had  a  reputation  with  three 
persons,  possibly  more.  But  Ceccherelli  remained  on  the 
piano-stool  and  never  once  raised  his  voice.  Estelle  and 
Aurora  went  in  turns  to  chat  with  him  there,  but  not  one 
witty  word  reached  Gerald.  Then  he  had  the  sense  to  see 
that  it  was  he,  Gerald,  who  acted  as  a  spoil-feast,  a  damp- 
ener.  He  got  an  outside  view  of  himself,  stiff,  dry,  critical, 
ungenial-looking.  It  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  the 
flow  of  spirits  was  dried  up  in  the  man  of  temperament  by 
his  vicinity.     He  suspected,  catching  a  side-look  from  the 


188  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

pianist's  small  brown  eye,  that  the  little  man  who  did  not 
care  to  speak  aloud  in  his  hearing  yet  had  plenty  to  say 
on  the  subject  of  him  in  a  different  entourage. 

This  notwithstanding,  it  was  only  when  Gerald  got  whiffs 
and  echoes  of  Ceccherelli  through  Aurora  that  he  called 
him  a  pest. 

''Italo  says,''  she  began,  after  a  silence  such  as  often  fell 
while  she  posed  and  he  painted,  ''that  Mr.  Landini  has  the 
evil  eye." 

''What  rubbish!" 

*'Glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  I  don't  believe  there  's  any 
such  thing,  myself.  But  Italo  swears  there  is,  and  has  told 
me  story  upon  story  to  prove  it.  He  wants  me  to  wear  a 
coral  horn  and  poke  it  at  Mr.  Landini  whenever  he  comes 
near  me." 

"Wherefore  a  coral  horn?  You  can  more  cheaply,  and 
quite  as  effectually,  make  horns  of  your  fingers,  like 
this.  I  should  strongly  advise  you  not  to  let  the  object  of 
this  precaution  catch  you  doing  it.  ...  I  should  think, 
Mrs.  Hawthorne,  you  would  be  ashamed  to  let  that  inferior 
little  individual  corrupt  your  mind." 

Fancying  it  teased  him,  she  pursued,  "What  do  you 
think  he  says  besides?  That  Mr.  Landini 's  color  isn't 
natural,  but  a  juice,  he  says,  a  dye,  that  he  stains  himself 
with." 

"For  the  love  of  Heaven,  why?" 

"That  's  what  I  wanted  to  know.  Why  go  to  all  that 
trouble  for  the  sake  of  looking  like  a  darkey?  But  Italo 
says,  says  Italo,  that  it  gives  him  more  success  with  the 
ladies.  His  difference  from  other  men  obliges  them  to  look 
at  him,  then  his  eyes  do  the  rest." 

"I  only  hope  your  laugh  is  sincere,  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  and 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  189 

that  you  do  not  allow  this  poisonous  nonsense  to  affect  your 
feelings  towards — " 

** Don't  be  afraid.  If  I  did,  I  shouldn't  be  having  him 
to  dinner,  should  I?     And  he  's  coming  to-night." 

'*0h." 

^'Yes.  Quite  a  party.  You  weren't  asked,  because 
we  know  you  now.  You  would  have  managed  by  sly  ques- 
tions to  find  out  who  else  was  coming  and  then  you 
wouldn't  have  come." 

''Well,  who  is  coming?  There  is  nothing  sly  about 
that." 

*'I  sha'n't  tell  you.  This  much  I  will  tell  you, 
though — "  she  added  with  the  frankness  usual  to  her,  *'I 
don't  look  forward  to  it  much." 

It  was  on  the  end  of  his  tongue  to  ask  next  morning  how 
her  dinner  had  gone  off,  but  on  second  thoughts  he  left  it 
for  her  to  speak  of  when  she  was  ready. 

She  at  first  appeared  much  as  on  other  days,  but  when 
she  had  lapsed  into  silence  and  fallen  into  thought  her  ex- 
pression became  a  shade  gloomy.  He  had  noticed  that 
when  her  eyes  were  rather  more  grey  than  blue  it  was  the 
sign  of  a  cloud  in  her  sky. 

*' Might  one  ask  the  lady  sitting  for  her  picture  to  look 
pleasant?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  remembered  herself;  '*I  will  try  to 
look  pleasant.     But  I  feel  cross." 

*'Well?  .  .  .  What  went  wrong  with  your  dinner?" 

**0h,  I  made  a  fool  of  myself." 

**That  sounds  serious.    Was  it?" 

**Yes.  No.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  don't  suppose  it  was 
really  serious.  .  .  .  But  the  whole  thing  has  made  me 
cross. ' ' 


190  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

She  labored  under  an  urgent  necessity  to  tell  somebody 
all  about  it,  that  was  evident. 

**You  see,"  she  plunged  without  preamble  into  her  con- 
fidence, ''from  the  beginning,  I  did  n't  want  that  party!  I 
love  to  have  folks  to  dinner,  any  number,  all  the  time.  You 
know  I  just  love  a  jollification.  But  this  was  different,  as 
I  knew  it  was  going  to  be.  It  began  with  Charlie  Hunt 
telling  me — or,  not  exactly  telling,  I  forget  how  it  came 
out — that  yesterday  was  his  birthday.  I  said,  'Come  and 
celebrate  with  us!'  I  was  thinking  of  making  a  big  cake 
and  sticking  it  full  of  pink  candles.  And  from  that  simple 
beginning,  blessed  if  I  know  how  it  happened,  except  my 
always  wanting  to  say  yes  to  anything  anybody  proposes, 
it  came  to  be  a  regular  dinner-party,  the  kind  they  give 
over  here,  with  courses  and  wines  and  finger-bowls,  all  the 
frills,  and  twelve  people,  not  friends  of  mine  at  all, 
barely  acquaintances,  but  people  Charlie  Hunt  thought  it 
would  be  nice  to  ask.  Well,  it  was  my  fault,  every  bit  of  it, 
and  nobody  else's.  I  've  no  business  to  say  all  those  joyful 
yeses  if  I  don't  mean  them.  Good  enough  for  me  if  I  have 
to  swallow  my  pill  afterwards  without  so  much  as  making 
a  face.  It  wasn't  so  bad,  after  all,  everything  went  all 
right,  thanks  to  Clotilde  and  Charlie.  Only  I  wasn't  hav- 
ing much  fun.  Charlie  had  planned  how  people  should 
sit,  and  Mr.  Landini  was  on  one  side  of  me,  and  he  was 
making  himself  terribly  agreeable.  He  means  all  right, 
but  his  talk,  as  I  guess  you  know,  isn't  a  bit  my  kind. 
And  last  night,  I  don't  mind  telling  you — "  her  voice 
dropped  to  a  note  confidentially  low,  *'with  his  compli- 
ments and  incinerations,  you  'd  almost  have  thought  he 
was  sweet  on  me.  Only  I  know  better.  And  so,  as  I  say,  I 
wasn't  having  much  fun.     Then  I  don't  know  what  got 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  191 

into  me.  They  were  passing  the  fruit.  I  got  up  and  went 
to  the  side-board  and  took  one  of  those  fine  hot-house 
looking  peaches  out  of  our  permanent  assortment  that 
needs  dusting  every  few  days,  and  I  came  back  to  my  seat 
and  offered  that  marble  fruit  with  a  fetching  smile  to  Mr. 
Landini.  He  looked  as  if  he  felt  I  was  bestowing  a  very 
particular  favor.  He  took  it — and  it  dropped  out  of  his 
hand  on  to  the  plate  with  a  crash  that  laid  it  in  smith- 
ereens. .  .  .  You  can  see  why  I  am  cross." 

'*I  should  n't  be  surprised,  dear  woman,  if  he  were  cross, 
too." 

''He  was  perfect!  I  respected  him!  Liked  him  better 
than  I  ever  had  before !  I  never  saw  anything  so  well  done 
as  the  way  he  carried  it  off !  I  was  never  so  uncomfortable 
in  all  my  life,  though  we  united  in  laughing,  ha,  ha.  .  .  . 
Charlie  would  have  taken  my  head  off,  if  he  had  dared, 
afterwards  in  a  corner  of  the  parlor.  But  the  first  word 
he  said,  I  cut  in,  short  as  pie-crust,  'Young  man,'  I  said, 
'if  you  aren't  careful  I  shall  sit  on  you.  Do  you  know 
how  much  I  weigh?'     And  I  meant  it." 

Gerald  prudently  placed  a  paint-brush  across  his  mouth 
and  shut  his  teeth  on  it  as  on  a  bridle-bit,  to  excuse  his  say 
ing  nothing  in  the  way  of  comment  on  what  he  had  heard 

Mrs.  Hawthorne  told  him  next  day  at  the  first  oppor 
tunit3%  like  one  eager  to  make  reparation  for  an  injustice 
**It 's  all  right  now!  A  beautiful  plate  came  yesterday 
afternoon  from  Ginori's  where  my  dinner-set  was  bought — 
a  plate,  you  know,  to  match  the  one  that  got  broken.  As  if 
I  cared  anything  about  the  old  plate !  And  along  with  it 
Mr.  Landini 's  card,  with  such  a  nice  message  written  on 
it.  Don't  you  think  it  white  in  him?  When  it  was  all  my 
fault.    And  in  the  evening  Charlie  Hunt  came  and  was 


192  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

sweet  as  pie.  We  're  just  as  good  friends  as  ever.  I  'm 
ashamed  of  myself  for  having  felt  so  put  out.  Forget  any- 
thing I  said  that  didn't  seem  quite  kind.  He's  all 
right.  It  's  me  that  's  erochety.  .  .  .  Isn't  that  picture 
far  enough  along  for  you  to  let  me  see  it?" 

''No,  Mrs.  Havrthorne." 

' '  Will  you  let  me  see  it  when  it  's  far  enough  along  ? ' ' 

*'No." 

"I  think  you  're  real  mean.  How  much  longer  will  it 
take  to  finish  it?" 

' '  Does  sitting  bore  you  so  much  ? ' ' 

''Land,  no!  Bore  me?  I  perfectly  love  it!  It's  like 
taking  a  sea-voyage  with  some  one.  You  see  more  of  them 
in  a  week  or  two  than  you  would  in  the  same  number 
of  years  on  land.  I  'm  getting  to  feel  I  know  you  quite 
well." 

"Wasn't  it  clever  of  me  to  think  of  the  portrait?'* 

'  *  Go  'way !  D '  you  see  anything  green  in  my  eye  ?  As 
I  was  saying,  I  'm  getting  to  know  you  pretty  well.  You 
get  mad  awful'  easy,  don't  you?  But  you  don't  hate 
people,  really,  nearly  as  much  as  I  do,  that  it  takes  a  lot  to 
make  mad.  There  are  people  in  this  world  that  I  hate — 
oh,  how  I  hate  'em !  I  hate  'em  so  I  could  almost  put  th-^ir 
eyes  out.  But  you,  Stickly-prickly,  when  it  comes  rig.  b 
down  to  it,  I  notice  you  make  a  lot  of  allowance  for  people. 
Do  you  know,  when  it  comes  right  down  to  it,  you  're  one  of 
the  patientest  persons  I  know.  I  'd  take  my  chances  with 
you  for  a  judge  a  lot  sooner  than  I  'd  like  to  with  loads 
of  people  who  aren't  half  so  ready  to  call  you  a  blame' 
fool." 

' '  While  you  have  been  making  these  valuable  discoveries 
in  character,  what  do  you  suppose  I  have  been  doing,  Mrs. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  193 

Hawthorne?"  asked  Gerald,  after  the  time  it  would  take 
to  bow  ceremoniously  in  acknowledgement  of  a  compli- 
ment. 

**0h,  finding  out  things  about  me,  I  suppose/' 

"Not  things.  One  thing.  I  had  known  you  for  some 
length  of  time  before  my  felicitous  invention  of  the  por- 
trait, you  remember,  and  as  you  are  barely  more  elusive 
than  the  primary  colors,  or  more  intricate  than  the  three 
virtues,  I  did  not  suppose  I  had  anything  more  to  learn. 
But  I  had.  It  can't  be  said  I  didn't  suspect  it.  I  had 
seen  signs  of  it.  I  smelled  it,  as  it  w^re.  But  I  had  no 
idea  of  its  extent,  its  magnitude,  its  importance.  It  is 
simply  amazing,  bewildering,  funny." 

"For  goodness'  sake,  what?"  she  cried,  breathless  with 
interest. 

"I  can't  tell  you.  It  would  ill  become  me  to  say.  The 
least  mention  of  it  on  my  part  would  be  the  height  of  im- 
pertinence. The  thing  is  none  of  my  business.  Be  so  kind 
as  to  resume  the  pose,  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  and  to  keep  very, 
very  still,  like  a  good  girl.  Do  not  speak,  please,  for  some 
time;  I  am  working  on  your  mouth." 

Gerald  had  indeed  been  astonished,  amused,  appalled. 
He  had  in  a  general  way  known  that  Mrs.  Hawthorne  was 
prodigal,  the  impression  one  received  of  her  at  first  sight 
prepared  one  to  find  her  generous;  but  he  had  formed  no 
idea  of  the  ease  and  magnificence  with  which  she  got  rid 
of  money. 

In  the  time  so  far  devoted  to  painting  her  he  had  grown 
quite  accustomed  to  a  little  scene  that  almost  daily  re- 
peated itself — a  scene  which  he,  busy  at  his  side  of  the  room, 
was  presumably  not  supposed  to  see,  or,  if  he  saw  it,  to 
think  anything  about. 


194  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

Clotilde  would  come  in  with  a  look  of  great  discretion,  a 
smile  of  great  modesty,  and  stand  hesitating,  like  a  person 
with  a  communication  to  make,  but  not  sufficient  boldness 
to  interrupt.  Aurora,  always  glad  to  drop  the  pose,  would 
excuse  herself  to  Gerald  and  ask  what  Clotilde  wanted. 
Clotilde  would  then  approach  and  speak  low, — not  so  low, 
however,  but  that  in  spite  of  him  messages  and  meanings 
were  telegraphed  to  Gerald's  brain.  The  look  itself  of  the 
unsealed  envelopes  in  Clotilde 's  hand  was  to  Gerald's  eye 
full  of  information.  She  would  sometimes  extract  and  un- 
fold a  document  for  Aurora  to  look  at;  but  Aurora  would 
wave  it  aside  with  a  careless,  ' '  You  know  I  could  n  't  read 
it  if  I  wanted  to. ' '  At  the  end  of  the  murmured  conference 
Aurora  would  say,  ''Will  you  go  and  get  my  porte-monnaie? 
It  's  in  my  top  drawer,"  and  when  this  had  been  brought, 
her  dimpled  hand  would  take  from  it  and  give  to  Clotilde 
bills  of  twenty,  of  fifty,  of  a  hundred  francs,  hardly  ap- 
pearing to  count.  Sometimes  she  would  say:  ''I  'm 
afraid  I  haven't  enough.  I  shall  have  to  make  out  a 
check." 

Gerald's  flair,  and  knowledge  of  his  Florence,  enabled 
him  perfectly  to  divine  what  was  in  question.  He  was  only 
puzzled  as  to  why  these  transactions  should  not  have  taken 
place  at  a  more  private  hour,  and  acutely  observed  that 
they  took  place  when  they  could,  this  being  when  Estelle 
was  out  of  the  way.     Clotilde  also  had  flair. 

After  Clotilde  had  retired,  Aurora  one  morning,  having 
imperfectly  understood  what  her  money  was  wanted  for, 
puckered  her  brows  over  the  letters  that,  through  an  over- 
sight, had  remained  in  her  hands.  She  held  one  out  to 
Gerald  to  translate.  It  was  from  the  united  chorus-singers 
of  Florence,  a  simple,  direct,  and  ingenuous  appeal  for  a 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  195 

gratuity.  Another  letter  was  from  a  poor  young  girl  who 
wished  for  money  to  buy  her  wedding  outfit.  Another 
from  a  poor  man  out  of  work. 

Gerald  could  have  laughed.  But  he  did  not ;  nor  made 
any  remark.  He  did  not  dislike  seeing  those  voracious 
maws  stuffed  with  a  fat  morsel.  He  knew  as  much  of  the 
real  poverty  in  Florence  as  of  the  innocent  impudence  of 
many  poor,  with  their  lingering  medieval  outlook  upon  the 
relations  of  the  poor  and  the  rich.  He  sided  with  those 
against  these.  Singularly,  perhaps,  he  regarded  himself 
as  belonging  among  the  latter,  the  rich.  He  was  glad  the 
chorus-singers  and  the  sposina  and  the  worried  padre  di 
famiglia  were  going  to  be  made  glad  by  rich  crumbs  from 
Aurora's  board.  But  he  could  not  help  uneasiness  for  the 
future,  when  the  famished  locusts,  still  approaching  single 
scout,  should  precipitate  themselves  in  battalions,  when  the 
whole  of  Florence  should  have  got  the  glad  tidings  and 
gathered  impetus.  .  .  . 

Well,  Clotilde  was  there.  Clotilde  would  know  perti- 
nent discourses  to  hold  to  the  brazen  beggars  when  their 
shamelessness  passed  bounds.  Meanwhile  Gerald  could  see 
that  she  enjoyed  this  distributing  of  good  things  among  her 
fellow-citizens.  Not  that  she  was  strongly  disposed  to 
charity.  He  did  not  believe  she  gave  away  anything  of  her 
own,  but  she  loved  to  see  Aurora  give.  After  a  life  spent 
in  a  home  where  the  lumps  of  sugar  were  counted  and  the 
coffee-beans  kept  under  lock  and  key,  it  attracted  her  like 
wild,  incredible  romance. 

It  would  have  hurt  her  to  behold  this  unproductive  out- 
put, no  doubt,  had  it  not  been  a  mere  foreigner  who  lost 
what  her  own  people  gained, — money,  besides,  that  could 
never  have  benefited  her,  and  that  came  nearer  to  benefiting 


196  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

her  when  spent  in  that  manner  than  in  another.  Clotilde, 
loyal  in  service,  giving  more  than  good  measure,  offering 
all  the  pleasant  fruits  of  a  visible  devotion,  could  yet 
not  be  expected  to  have — or,  to  state  it  more  fairly,  was 
not  supposed  by  Gerald  to  have — any  real  bowels  for  this 
outsider,  who  might  for  one  thing  be  drawing  from  bottom- 
less gold-mines,  or,  if  she  were  not,  would  suffer  a  ruin  she 
had  richly  deserved.  And  might  it  not  in  aftertimes  profit 
her,  Clotilde,  to  have  been  instrumental  to  this  person  and 
that  in  obtaining  money  from  the  millionaire?  The  shops 
recognized  such  a  title  to  reward,  and  offered  it  regularly 
to  such  private  middlemen  as  herself  for  a  careful  guiding 
of  the  dispensing  hand,  and  this  without  the  feeling  on  any 
side  that  it  w^as  the  payment  of  the  unjust  steward. 

Gerald  did  not  in  the  least  despise  Clotilde,  poor  Clotilde, 
with  her  nose  like  a  little  white  trumpet  between  her  downy 
pink  and  white  cheeks,  for  this  businesslike  outlook  and  use 
of  her  position.  It  would  have  been  different  if  she  had 
been  a  friend  and  gentleman. 

The  portrait  did  not  progress  rapidly.  Gerald  was  not 
hurrying.  On  Gerald's  lips  as  he  painted  there  played  an 
ambiguous  smile,  privately  derisive  of  his  work  and  the  fun 
he  was  having. 

No  problems,  no  effort,  none  of  those  searching  doubts  of 
oneself  that  produce  heart-sickness;  nor  yet  any  of  those 
exaltations  that  cause  one  to  forget  the  hour  of  meals. 
Curious  that  it  should  have  been  fun  all  the  same !  .  .  .  His 
reply  to  which  w^as  that  only  a  very  poor  observer  could 
think  it  curious  that  the  lower  man  within  a  man  should 
feel  it  fun  to  be  indulged.  Fortunately,  a  natural  limit 
was  set  to  this  Capuan  period. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  197 

He  would  come  from  the  winter  world  into  the  room 
which  the  American  kept  enervatingly  warm,  a  pernicious 
practice.  One  could  not  deny,  however,  that  the  body 
relaxed  in  it  with  a  sense  of  well-being,  after  steeling  itself 
to  resist  the  insidious  Italian  cold,  exuding  from  damp 
pavements  and  blown  on  the  sharp  tramontana;  that  cold 
which  is  never,  if  measured  by  the  thermometer,  severe,  but 
against  which  clothing  seems  ineffectual.  The  blood  does 
not  react  against  it ;  the  blood  shrinks  away,  and  stagnates 
around  the  heart. 

He  would  change  his  coat  for  a  velveteen  jacket,  not  in 
order  to  be  picturesque,  but  to  keep  his  coat-cuffs  clean. 
He  was  as  particular  as  an  old  maid,  Aurora  told  him, 
before  he  had  been  caught  absent-mindedly  wiping  paint 
off  on  his  hair. 

The  fair  model  would  get  her  chair-legs  into  correspond- 
ence with  certain  chalk-marks  on  the  carpet,  be  helped  to 
find  her  pose,  and  having  made  herself  comfortable,  turn 
on  him  blue  eyes,  with  a  faint  brown  shadow  under  them — 
blue  eyes  that  wore  a  sheepish  look  until  she  presently  for- 
got she  was  sitting  for  her  picture.  She  was  pressed  to 
keep  her  opera-cloak  over  her  shoulders,  lest  she  take  cold 
in  her  decollete ;  the  high  fur  collar  made  an  effective  back 
ground  for  her  face.  Then  he  would  fall  to  painting,  and 
the  hours  of  the  forenoon  would  fly. 

An  amiable  woman  would  now  and  then  make  a  remark, 
easily  jocular.  Another  amiable  woman — soothing  pres- 
ences, both — would  answer.  Or  he  would  answer;  there 
would  be  an  interlude  of  familiar  talk,  rest,  and  laughing, 
and  throwing  a  ball  for  a  scampering  puppy.  At  noon  an 
end  to  labor.  He  would  remain  for  lunch,  that  meal  of 
cheery  luxury,  immorally  abundant.    After  it  he  would 


198  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

still  linger  in  this  house,  bright  and  warm  with  fires, 
smoking  cigarettes  in  a  chair  as  luxuriously  soft  as  those 
curling  clouds  on  which  are  seen  throning  the  gods  in 
ceiling  frescos,  and  grow  further  day  by  day  into  the  in- 
timacy of  the  amiable  women.  In  full  afternoon  they 
would  ask  him  if  he  would  go  out  with  them  in  their  car- 
riage, take  an  airing,  and  return  for  dinner;  or,  if  he 
obstinately  declined,  might  they  set  him  down  somewhere. 
He  would  make  a  point  of  not  accepting,  and  hurry  off  afoot 
with  his  damp  umbrella. 

Although  Gerald  had  enlightened  contempt  for  the 
sensuous  comfort  he  was  taking  in  the  fleshpots  of  the 
Hermitage,  there  was  in  it  one  element  which  he  did  not 
analyze  merely  to  despise. 

He  was  aware  of  it  most  often  after  Estelle  had  left  the 
room.  He  settled  down  then  for  a  time  of  heightened  well- 
being.  It  was  observable  that  the  sitter  also  took  on  a 
faintly  different  air.  Often  at  that  moment  she  would 
vaguely,  purposelessly,  smile  over  to  him,  and  he  would 
smile  in  absolute  reciprocity.  They  would  not  seize  the 
opportunity  for  more  personal  exchange  of  talk.  All 
would  go  on  as  before.  He  had  nothing  to  say  to  Aurora 
or  she  to  him  that  could  not  have  been  said  before  an  army 
of  witnesses.  Yet  it  was  to  him  as  if  a  touch  of  magic  had 
removed  an  impediment,  and  the  mysterious  effluvium 
which  made  the  vicinity  of  l\Irs.  Hawthorne  calming,  heal- 
ing to  him,  had  a  chance  to  flow  and  steep  his  nerves  in  a 
blessed  quiet,  a  quiet  which — one  hardly  knows  how  to  de- 
scribe such  a  thing — was  at  the  same  time  excitement. 

Gerald  did  not  really  care  for  talking.  He  could,  it  was 
true,  sit  up  all  night  with  Vincent  Johns,  discussing  this 
subject  and  that;  he  could  split  hairs  and  wander  into 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  199 

every  intricacy  of  argument  with  men  and  artists;  with 
women  too  he  could  sometimes  be  litigious.  The  bottom 
truth  was  nevertheless  that  he  did  not  care  for  talking. 
It  had  happened  to  him  to  sigh  for  a  world  where  nobody 
talked  forever  and  ever. 

What  he  cared  for  was  faces.  They  were  what  dis- 
coursed to  you,  told  the  veracious  story  of  lives  and  emo- 
tions— not  lamely,  as  words  do,  mingling  the  trivial  with 
the  significant,  but  altogether  perfectly.  It  rested  with 
you  to  understand. 

Mrs.  Hawthorne  in  talk  was  cheap  as  echoes  of  a  travel- 
ing-circus tent:  you  had  the  simple  fooling  of  the  clown, 
the  plain  good  sense  of  the  farmer's  wife,  the  children's 
ebullient  joy  in  the  show.  But  Mrs.  Hawthorne  in  silence 
and  abstraction  was  allied  to  things  august  and  mysterious, 
things  far  removed  from  her  own  thoughts.  These,  while 
she  sat  in  her  foolish  jewels,  unsuitable  by  day,  were  very 
likely  busy  with  her  house,  her  dressmaker,  the  doings  of 
her  little  set,  gossip,  the  personal  affairs — who  knows? — of 
the  painter  painting  her.  But,  profounder  than  words  or 
thoughts,  Mrs.  Hawthorne's  essential  manner  of  being  re- 
lated her  to  those  forces  of  the  world  which  the  ancient 
mind  figured  in  the  shapes  of  women.  There  was  some- 
thing present  in  her  of  the  basic  kindness  of  old  Earth,  who 
wants  to  feed  everybody,  is  ready  to  give  her  breast  to  all 
the  children.  Her  robust  joyousness  reposed,  one  felt,  on 
a  reality,  some  great  fact  that  made  angers  and  anxieties 
irrational. 

The  student  of  faces  could  not  have  maintained  that  he 
got  these  impressions  of  his  sitter  through  his  eyes.  It 
was  more,  after  all,  like  a  reflection  received  on  the  sensitive 
plate  of  his  heart. 


200  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

One  day  Gerald  began  to  hurry.  He  had  had  enough  of 
it.  The  portrait  was  finished  in  a  few  hours.  The  ladies 
were  not  permitted  to  see  it.  They  were  made  to  wait  until 
it  was  varnished  and  framed  in  one  of  the  great,  bright 
Florentine  frames  of  which  they  were  so  fond. 

Gerald,  while  they  took  their  first  long,  rapt  look,  stood 
at  one  side,  with  a  smile  like  a  faunas  when  a  faun  is 
Mephistophelian. 

Aurora,  clasping  her  hands  in  a  delight  that  could  find 
no  words  to  express  it,  made  a  sound  like  the  coo  of  a  dove. 

Estelle  echoed  this  exclamation,  but  her  charmed  sur- 
prise did  not  ring  so  true,  if  any  one  had  been  watchful 
enough  to  seize  the  shade  of  difference.  Because,  not  hav- 
ing been  made  to  give  a  promise,  she  had  from  time  to 
time  taken  a  look  privately  at  the  painting  during  its 
progress.  Aurora  had  known  of  this  and  been  sorely 
tempted  to  do  the  same,  but  had  resisted  the  temptation, 
afraid  of  Gerald's  bad  opinion. 

* '  My  soul ! '  *  she  murmured,  really  much  moved. 

Of  course  she  knew  that  the  portrait  flattered  her;  but 
she  felt  as  Lauras  and  Leonoras  and  Lucastas  no  doubt  felt 
when  their  poets  celebrated  them  under  ideal  forms  in 
which  their  friends  and  families  may  have  had  trouble  to 
recognize  them.  The  pride  of  having  inspired  an  immortal 
masterpiece  must  have  stirred  their  hearts  to  gratitude 
toward  the  gifted  beings  able  to  see  them  disencumbered 
from  their  faults,  and  fix  them  for  the  contemplation  of 
their  own  eyes  and  their  neighbors'  as  they  had  been  at  the 
best  moment  of  their  brightest  hour. 

In  the  days  when  La  Grande  Mademoiselle  was  painted 
as  Minerva,  Aurora's  portrait  might  have  been  called 
''Mrs.  Hawthorne  as  Venus."     The  expression  of  her  face 


Aurora,  elasing  \nn    liaiuLs  in   a  tU'li^ht  thai   .ouM    iniil   no  words 
to  express  it,  made  a  sound  like  the  coo  of  a  dove 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  201 

was  as  void  of  history  as  the  fair  goddess's.  The  tender 
beam  of  pleasure  lighting  it  suggested  that  she  might  that 
moment  have  been  awarded  the  apple.  The  portrait  was, 
nevertheless,  in  a  way,  ''Aurora  all  over,"  as  Estelle  pro- 
nounced it;  but  an  Aurora  whose  imperfections  had  been 
smoothed  out  of  existence,  and  with  them  her  humor;  an 
Aurora  whose  good  working  complexion,  as  she  called  it, 
had  been  turned  to  lilies  and  roses,  her  hair  of  mortal  gold 
to  immortal  sunshine,  and  those  sagacious  orbs  of  blue, 
which  made  friends  for  her  by  their  twinkle,  into  melting 
azure  stars. 

The  painter  had,  besides,  glorified  every  detail  of  the  set- 
ting: the  rich  fabric  of  the  dress,  the  creamy  feathers  of 
the  fan,  even  the  roses  of  the  breast-knot.  The  pearls  and 
diamonds  he  had  amused  himself  with  making  larger  than 
they  were,  and  filled  these  with  a  winking  fire,  those  with  a 
lambent  luster.  But  Gerald  had  no  mind  when  he  indulged 
in  satire  to  be  gross.  The  whole  was  dainty,  as  shimmering 
as  a  soap-bubble,  and  of  a  fineness  that  rightly  commended 
it  to  lovers  of  beautiful  surfaces. 

*'I  don't  care,"  burst  from  Aurora,  as  if  in  reply  to  an 
inaudible  criticism,  "I  just  love  it!  I  don't  care  if  it  is 
flattered.  I  could  hug  you  for  it,  Gerald  Fane.  I  think 
it  's  perfectly  lovely.  It  's  going  to  be  a  solid  satisfaction. 
By  and  by,  when  my  double  chin  has  caught  up  with  me, 
and  I  'm  a  homely  old  thing,  and  nobody  knows  what  I  did 
look  like  in  my  prime,  I  '11  have  this  to  show  them.  By 
that  time,  with  my  brain  weakening,  I  hope  I  shall  have 
come  to  thinking  it  was  as  like  me  as  two  peas.  There  's 
some  reason  for  living  now." 

Every  caller  was  taken  to  see  the  portrait,  and  heard 
Mrs.  Hawthorne's  opinion  of  the  talented  artist.     The  ma- 


W2  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

jority  of  visitors  candidly  shared  her  admiration,  though 
not  one  woman  among  them  can  have  failed  to  say  to  her- 
self that  the  portrait  was  flattered.  But  with  a  portrait 
of  oneself  to  have  executed,  who  would  not  prefer  the  brush 
that  makes  beautiful? 

Interest  spread  in  the  painter,  whose  work  few  even  of 
the  Florentines  knew  except  from  hearsay.  No  one  who 
saw  Mrs.  Hawthorne's  portrait  was  very  clearly  aware — 
such  is  fame! — that  it  was  for  Fane  a  departure.  Until 
it  came  to  Leslie.  She  stood  a  long  time  before  the  paint- 
ing, then  exclaimed: 

''What  a  joke!" 

But  she  was  inclined  to  take  the  same  view  as  Mrs.  Haw- 
thorne, that  when  he  could  paint  like  that  it  was  a  pity 
Gerald  should  not  do  it  oftener,  to  build  up  a  reputation 
and  fill  his  purse.  She  only  would  have  advised  him  not 
to  go  quite  so  far  another  time  in  the  same  direction. 

As  Gerald,  the  portrait  finished,  came  no  more  to  the 
house,  fairly  as  if  modesty  could  not  have  endured  the  com- 
pliments showered  upon  him,  Aurora  with  a  communica- 
tion to  make  had  to  square  herself  before  her  desk  in  the 
room  of  the  red  flowers  and  painstakingly  pen  a  note. 

Aurora,  when  taking  pains,  wrote  the  cleanest,  clearest, 
most  characterless  hand  that  was  ever  seen  outside  of  a 
school  copy-book,  and  took  pride  in  it.  Aurora's  language, 
when  she  applied  herself  to  composition,  lost  the  last  vestige 
of  color  and  life.     She  wrote: 

''My  dear  Mr.  Fane: 

*'You  have  not  been  to  see  us  for  a  long  time,  and  so  I 
am  obliged  to  write  what  I  have  to  say.     It  is  that  our 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  203 

friends  cannot  say  enough  in  praise  of  your  portrait  of 
me,  and  Mrs.  Bixby,  an  American  who  is  staying  at  the 
pension  Trollope,  wants  to  have  one  just  like  it — one,  of 
course,  I  mean,  as  much  like  her  as  that  is  like  me,  but  not 
a  bit  more.  But  before  she  decides  she  wants  to  know 
what  it  will  cost.  And  that  brings  me  to  the  question. 
What  is  the  price  of  my  picture?  Please,  let  me  beg  you 
to  make  it  a  figure  I  shall  not  blush  to  pay  for  such  a  fine 
piece  of  work.  Make  it  a  price  that  agrees  with  my  esti- 
mate of  the  picture  rather  than  your  very  modest  one.  I 
shall  be  glad,  you  ought  to  know,  to  pay  anything  you  say. 
You  could  n  't,  if  you  tried,  make  it  seem  too  much  for  me 
to  pay  for  such  a  fine  piece  of  work.  I  have  got  up  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  and  gone  down  to  look  at  it  with  a 
candle,  and  stood  till  I  began  to  sneeze,  I  like  it  so  much, 
though  I  know  it  's  too  good-looking.  So  please  set  a  good 
price  on  it  and  not  make  me  feel  mean  taking  it.  Then 
I  '11  tell  Mrs.  Bixby  what  I  paid.  She  's  got  plenty  of 
money,  and  even  if  she  beats  you  down,  it  will  be  better 
if  she  knows  I  paid  a  big  price.  You  have  such  a  won- 
derful talent  it  ought  to  make  your  fortune,  and  so  it  will 
by  and  by.  Don't  forget  that  we  are  alwaj^s  glad  to  see 
you  and  that  you  haven't  been  for  quite  a  while. 

**  Yours  sincerely, 

"Aurora  Hawthorne. 

*'P.S.  What  do  you  think  Busteretto  did  ?  He  saw  me 
pouring  some  water  into  a  bowl  and  imagined  I  was  going 
to  give  him  a  bath.  So  he  went  to  hide  under  the  grate. 
Then  of  course  he  had  to  have  a  bath,  which  he  wouldn't 
have  had  to  otherwise.     He  sends  much  love. 

"Another  P.S.    I  meant  to  tell  you  we  have  got  a  box 


204  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

for  the  veglione  (I  hope  that  is  the  way  to  spell  it)  on  the 
last  night  of  the  Carnival.  We  have  only  asked  the  Fosses 
so  far,  and  we  want  you  to  be  sure  to  save  that  night  to 
come  with  us.'* 

Gerald,  having  read,  sat  down  and  wrote,  with  a  disre- 
gard to  the  delicacy  of  his  hair-lines  and  the  shading  of  his 
down-strokes  that  would  have  furnished  a  poor  example 
to  anybody: 

*'The  portrait,  my  dear  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  is  a  gift,  for 
which  I  will  not  even  accept  thanks,  as  it  is,  your  kind 
opinion  notwithstanding,  absolutely  without  value.  One 
sole  point  of  interest  it  has,  that  of  a  future  curiosity — 
the  only  thing  of  the  kind  that  will  have  been  painted 
in  his  whole  lifetime  by 

''Your  devoted  friend, 

''G.  P. 
''Shall  I  find  you  at  home  this  evening?'' 


CHAPTER  XII 

NO  festivity  has  quite  the  vast  and  varied  glitter 
of  a  veglione.  It  takes  a  whole  city  to  make  a 
party  so  big  and  bright.  And  the  last  veglione 
of  the  season  is  rather  brighter  than  the  rest,  as  if  the  spirit 
of  revelry,  inexhausted  at  the  end  of  Carnival,  made  haste 
to  use  itself  up  in  fireworks  before  the  cold  dawn  of  Ash 
.Wednesday. 

The  opera-house  is  cleared  of  its  rows  of  seats,  the  stage 
united  to  the  parquet  by  a  sloping  floor.  Every  one  of  the 
boxes,  rising  tier  above  tier  in  a  jeweled  horseshoe,  offers 
the  sight  of  a  merry  supper-party,  with  spread  table, 
twinkling  candelabra,  flowers,  gala  display. 

Crowding  floor  and  stage  and  lobbies,  swarm  the  mask- 
ers. In  the  center  of  the  great  floor  the  corps  de  ballet, 
regiment  of  sylphs  in  tulle  petticoats  and  pale-pink  tights, 
performs  its  characteristic  evolutions  to  the  pulsating 
strains  of  the  opera  orchestra.  The  public  dances  in  the 
remaining  space — dances,  promenades,  and  plays  pranks, 
the  special  diversion  of  the  evening  being  to  ''intrigue" 
some  one.  They  are  heard  speaking  in  high  squeaks,  in 
bass  rumbles,  in  any  way  that  may  disguise  the  voice. 
Many  are  in  costume, — Mephistos,  Pierrots,  Figaros,  Harle- 
quins, but  the  most  are  in  simple  domino. 

When  a  lady  wishes  to  descend  among  the  crowd  she,  in 
the  darkness  at  the  back  of  the  box,  slips  a  domino  over  her 

205 


206  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

ball-dress,  a  mask  over  her  features,  and  goes  forth  un- 
known to  all  save  the  cavalier  on  whose  arm  she  leans. 

The  only  uncovered  faces  belong  to  gentlemen.  These 
look  often  a  little  foolish,  a  little  bored,  because  the  uncov- 
ered faces  are  the  natural  objects  of  the  maskers*  imperti- 
nences, their  part  the  rather  barren  amusement  of  trying 
to  divine  who  it  is  endeavoring  to  intrigue,  or  puzzle,  them, 
and  wittily  to  parry  personalities  often  more  pointed  than 
the  drawing-room  permits. 

The  party  in  Aurora's  box  was  large  for  the  size  of  the 
box.  She  had  gone  on  inviting  people,  then  brought  ham- 
pers and  hampers  of  good  things  with  which  to  feed  them. 
There  were  the  Fosses,  Charlie  with  all  the  Hunt  girls, 
Landini,  Lavin,  the  American  doctor,  the  American  dentist, 
and  Gerald. 

Also  Manlio.  The  Fosses  had  brought  him.  He  had  re- 
turned from  furlough  some  time  before.  It  was  known 
now  to  everybody  that  he  was  the  fidanzato  of  Brenda  Foss. 
There  was  no  talk  of  his  leaving  the  army ;  on  the  contrary, 
he  was  rumored  to  have  prospects  of  early  advancement  to 
the  grade  of  captain ;  wherefore  the  general  public  took  it 
for  granted  that  the  bride's  parents  were  providing  the 
indispensable  marriage  portion. 

Aurora's  eyes,  at  a  moment  when  Manlio 's  attention 
was  elsewhere,  rested  on  him  with  a  brooding,  shining  look. 
The  symptoms  of  a  great  happiness,  though  modestly 
muffled,  were  plain  in  his  face.  The  Beautiful  One  was 
coming  back  in  the  spring,  already  near,  to  marry 
him. 

Aurora's  affectionate  look  was  just  tinged  with  regret. 
She  had  suffered  a  disappointment  in  connection  with 
Manlio.     An  obstinate  and  uncompromising  woman  beyond 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  £07 

the  ocean,  when  invited  to  join  in  a  harmless  conspiracy, 
had  preferred  to  do  actually,  to  the  tune  of  eight  thousand 
dollars,  what  the  grasping  creature  should  have  been  satis- 
fied with  merely  appearing  to  do.  The  happiness  that 
pierced  through  Manlio's  calm,  like  a  strong  light  through 
pale  marble,  came  to  him  from  the  bride  elect's  aunt,  and 
Aurora  felt  robbed. 

But  Mrs.  Foss's  hand  found  hers  under  the  table  and 
gave  it  a  warm  squeeze,  whereupon  Aurora's  heart  swelled 
in  a  way  it  had  of  doing.  When  such  a  dilation  took  place, 
something  simultaneously  happened  to  her  eyes:  the  sur- 
rounding world  was  revealed  to  them  as  ''too  lovely  for 
anything."     Dimples  declared  her  joy. 

** Won't  somebody  have  something  more?"  she  asked, 
with  the  spoon  in  her  hand  poised  over  a  bowl  still  half 
full  of  chicken  mayonnaise. 

But  every  one  was  done  with  eating ;  all  were  in  haste  to 
go  down  on  to  the  floor  and  find  amusement,  perhaps  adven- 
ture, amid  the  fluctuating,  fascinating  crowd. 

The  box  was  fairly  deserted  when  the  door  opened  again, 
and  the  eyes  of  those  left  in  it,  turning  to  see  who  entered, 
were  met  by  two  unknown  maskers. 

One  wore  the  costume  of  a  hravo  of  old  times,  pic- 
turesque, disreputable,  an  operatic  Sparafiicile  in  tattered 
mantle  and  ragged  plume.  The  other  was  in  a  black  satin 
domino,  and  had  the  face  of  a  crow,  a  great  black  beak 
projecting  from  a  black  mask. 

They  stood  a  little  way  inside  of  the  door  as  if  waiting 
to  be  addressed.  There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  while  the 
others  waited  likewise.  Within  the  eye-holes  of  their  masks 
the  eyes  of  the  intruders  glittered  in  the  glassy,  baffling 
way  of  eyes  behind  masks. 


208  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

Aurora,  unused  to  the  mode  of  procedure  at  a  veglione, 
asked  helplessly  in  a  whisper  of  Landini ; 

''What  shall  I  say  to  them?" 

He  spoke  for  her  then,  in  Italian,  because  he  thought  it 
probable  that  these  were  Florentines  who  had  come  into 
a  strange  box  for  a  lark. 

' '  Good  evening, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Will  you  speak,  or  sing,  and 
let  us  know  what  we  can  do  for  your  service  ? ' ' 

The  bravo,  lifting  two  long  hands  in  loose  and  torn  black 
gloves,  rapidly  made  signs,  like  the  deaf  and  dumb. 

' '  You  speak  too  loud, ' '  said  Gerald.  ' '  We  are  deafened. 
Let  the  lady  speak." 

The  black  domino,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  and  a 
gesture  of  black-gloved  hands  excusing  the  limitations  of  a 
bird,  answered  by  a  simple  caw. 

Aurora  now  found  her  tongue  and  her  cue : 

"And  is  it  yourselves?"  she  burst  in  rollickingly. 
''Proud  to  meet  you!    Will  you  partake?" 

With  a  hospitable  sweep  of  the  arm,  intelligible  to  speak- 
ers of  any  language,  she  made  them  free  of  her  supper- 
table,  where  the  candles  still  twinkled  over  an  appetizing 
abundance. 

Gerald  watched  sharply,  saying  to  himself:  "If  they 
accept,  we  shall  at  least  see  their  chins." 

But  upon  the  invitation  Sparafucile,  with  farcical  dem- 
onstrations of  greed,  reached  forth  his  long  fingers  in  the 
flapping  gloves,  seized  cakes,  white  grapes,  mandarins,  nuts, 
and  stuffed  them  into  his  wide  pockets;  while  the  black 
domino  grasped  the  neck  of  a  bottle  of  champagne  and 
possessed  herself  of  a  glass.  A  caw  of  thanks  issued  from 
the  black  beak,  and  from  the  bravo,  as  with  their  booty 
the  two  retreated  to  the  door,  there  proceeded,  as  unex- 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  209 

pected  as  upsetting,  a  whoop  of  rejoicing  so  loud  that  those 
near  him  fell  back  as  if  from  the  danger  of  an  explo- 
sion. In  the  midst  of  this  consternation  the  maskers  were 
gone. 

"My  land!  did  you  hear  that?"  cried  Aurora,  who  had 
clapped  both  hands  over  the  pit  of  her  stomach.  "Good- 
ness! he  's  scared  the  liver-pin  out  of  me!  Who  d'you 
suppose  they  were?" 

Landini  lost  not  another  minute  before  asking  Mrs.  Haw- 
thorne if  they  should  go  down  together  for  a  turn. 

Gerald  had  been  on  the  point  of  asking  the  same  thing. 
He  had  almost  uttered  the  first  word  when  Landini  antici- 
pated him.  He  felt  a  sharp  prick  of  annoyance  with  him- 
self for  not  having  been  quicker  as  much  as  with  Landini 
for  having  been  so  quick.  A  little  jealousy  was  quite  in 
order  with  regard  to  Mrs.  Hawthorne  now,  on  the  simple 
ground  of  that  more  intimate  footing  of  friendship  estab- 
lished between  them  by  the  portrait.  With  the  expression 
of  courteous  mournf  ulness  proper  in  an  outrivaled  cavalier, 
he  made  the  gesture  silently  of  having  been  at  the  lady's 
service.    Manlio  did  the  same. 

The  singular  blonde,  with  Nubian  lip  and  Parisian  hair, 
Miss  Deliverance  Jones,  or,  more  commonly,  Liwy,  who 
spent  this  evening  at  the  farther  end  of  the  box  making 
her  own  reflections  on  the  European  doings  of  which  she 
got  glimpses,  held  up  a  white  satin  domino  for  her  mis- 
tress's arms.  Gerald  precipitated  himself,  took  it  from  the 
maid  and  held  it  in  her  place.  He  tried  to  meet  his 
friend's  glance,  hoping  for  some  faintest  sign  of  participa- 
tion in  his  regret  at  not  having  been  "spryer."  For  the 
space  of  a  second,  just  before  she  fastened  on  her  mask, 
he  caught  her  eye.     Brief  and  bright  as  the  illumination  of 


210  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

summer  lightning,  a  look  of  fun  flashed  over  her  face. 
She  winked  at  him. 

Landini  ceremoniously  held  his  arm  for  her  and  Gerald 
saw  them  leave  together  with  a  lessened  objection. 

Gerald  had  for  some  time  past  suspected  that  Landini 
was  paying  court  to  Mrs.  Hawthorne.  Whether  the  lady 
were  aware  of  it  he  could  not  tell.  Gerald  had  not  be- 
lieved the  man  had  a  chance,  although,  women  being  incal- 
culable, one  can  never  feel  quite  easy.  But  now  he  could  al- 
most have  found  it  in  himself  to  pity  the  somewhat  singular 
man — Italian  in  fact,  English  in  manner,  Oriental  in  looks, 
— if  so  were  he  had  built  up  any  little  practical  dream  on 
the  fair  widow 's  acceptance  of  him.  To  the  possibility  of  a 
sentimental  dream  Gerald  did  not  accord  one  single 
thought. 

He  seated  himself,  to  wait  for  their  return.  Only 
Manlio  was  left  in  the  box  besides  himself.  Manlio,  con- 
secrated to  the  worship  of  one  afar,  cared  little  to  mix  with 
the  profane  and  noisy  multitude.  As  Gerald  leaned  forth 
to  see  the  couple  that  had  just  left  them  reappear  down- 
stairs, Manlio,  whose  eyes  followed  his,  remarked  very 
sincerely,  when  the  large  easily-recognized  white  domino 
came  into  sight  ^^E  huona!"  which  can  be  translated 
either,  ''She  is  kind,''  or  ''She  is  good." 

Gerald  felt  the  warmth  of  an  increased  liking  for  him, 
because  of  the  perspicacity  he  showed.  They  lighted 
cigarettes,  and  together  looked  over  the  marvelous  scene,  so 
rich  in  color  and  life,  while  they  talked  of  things  that  bore 
no  relation  to  it,  serious  things  and  manly — politics. 

Charlie  came  in  with  Francesca,  who  at  the  door  doffed 
her  domino  and  mask.  Both,  heated  from  dancing,  were 
ready  for  a  rest  and  a  little  more  of  the  Champagne-cup. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  211 

**By  the  way,  Gerald,"  said  Charlie,  "that  's  a  jolly  good 
painting,  old  chap,  you  made  of  our  charming  hostess." 

*'Glad  you  like  it!"  answered  Gerald  carelessly,  without 
irony. 

He  did  not  at  the  moment  dislike  Charlie. 

He  was  genially  inclined  to-night  toward  all  the  world. 
"While  he  had  been  tying  on  his  white  cravat  before  the 
glass  in  preparation  for  the  veglione,  it  had  dawned  on  him, 
to  his  surprise  and  glimmering  relief,  that  he  felt  some- 
thing resembling  pleasure  in  the  prospect  of  the  confused 
and  promiscuous  affair  he  was  enlisted  for.  He  had  con- 
stated that  something  like  normal  responsiveness  to  the 
common  exterior  solicitations  to  enjoyment  was  returning 
to  his  spirit,  his  nerves.  The  tang  of  life  was  pleasant  to 
his  palate. 

A  dim  gladness  moved  him,  as  at  coming  across  a 
precious  thing  one  had  supposed  lost,  in  remembering  that 
he  was  young.  .  .  . 

He  laid  all  this  to  the  mere  passage  of  time,  and  thanked 
the  gods  that  unless  one  dies  of  one's  hurts  one  finally 
recovers. 

Under  these  circumstances  it  is  conceivable  that  he  should 
not  momentarily  feel  hate  or  impatience  toward  any  fellow- 
passenger  on  the  amusing  old  Ship  of  the  World. 

Scraps  of  poetry  stirred  in  the  wells  of  memory  where 
they  are  dropped  and  lost  sight  of.  *  *  I  feel  peaceful  as  old 
age,"  he  quoted. 

But  his  eye  falling  on  the  white  carnation  which 
Giovanna,  knowing  her  signorino  was  going  in  serata,  had 
provided  for  his  buttonhole,  lines  less  grey  came  to  his  lips : 
^^Neque  tu  choreas.  ..."  He  fished  for  the  half -forgotten 
words.    ^^  Donee  virenti  canities  dbest.  ..." 


212  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

Because  a  positive  sense  of  health  pervaded  him,  he,  with 
a  philosophy  founded  upon  observation,  remarked  that  by 
this  sign  no  doubt  he  was  on  the  verge  of  an  illness.  But 
he  absentmindedly  neglected  the  practices  preventive  of 
misfortune,  believed  in  not  solely  by  the  popolino  of  Italy, 
but  recommended  to  him  in  boyhood  by  the  excellent 
physician  who  after  curing  his  mumps  had  taught  him  to 
make  horns  with  his  fingers  against  calamity  of  any  sort 
that  might  threaten. 

So,  being  in  a  good  humor,  and  made  further  contented 
by  the  uplifting  privilege  of  a  broad  unmistakable  wink 
from  a  lady,  he  did  not  dislike  Charlie  as  usual;  he  even, 
as  he  looked  at  him,  lustrous-eyed,  clear-skinned,  smooth, 
lighting  his  cigarette  at  a  candle,  wondered  why  one  should 
not  like  him.  He  had  his  good  qualities.  Mere  vitality  is 
one.  Those  points  of  conduct  that  called  upon  him  the  dis- 
dain of  persons  more  fastidious  with  regard  to  their  actions, 
secret  or  revealed,  than  he,  were  not  productive,  after  all, 
of  much  harm.  .  .  . 

With  eyes  narrowed,  as  when  he  was  examining  a  face 
to  paint  it,  Gerald  watched  the  handsome  fellow  in  an 
animated  cousinly  dispute  with  Francesca — with  the  result, 
really  against  his  hope,  of  finding  himself,  instead  of  aided 
by  his  effort  of  good-will  to  discover  new  virtues,  confirmed 
in  his  previous  disesteem.  He  could  make  himself  almost 
love  Charlie  by  picturing  him  afflicted,  humiliated,  sorrow- 
ful. But  he  could  not  picture  him  sorrowful  except  for 
narrowly  personal  misfortunes,  such  as  poverty,  sickness. 
One  could  not  even  be  sure,  with  a  face  of  so  little  gener- 
osity or  moral  consciousness  as  Charlie's,  that  he  would 
under  all  circumstances  be  incapable  of  active  malig- 
nity. .  .  . 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  213 

The  latter  thought  Gerald  had  the  justice  to  sweep  aside 
with  an  unspoken  apology. 

*'0f  course,  you,  Charlie,  never  could  admit  that  a  cousin 
and  a  female  might  know  better  than  you ! ' '  Francesca  was 
contending  noisily.  ' '  It  happens  that  I  have  lately  looked 
up,  with  some  care,  the  costumes  of  the  trecento  ..." 

''My  dear  girl!"  interrupted  Charlie.  "You  will  be  in- 
sisting next  that  an  incroydble  is  a  Greek,  or  that  creature, 
that  sort  of  Italian  bandit  who  gave  the  disgusting  roar, 
is  a  French  marquis.  .  .  .  Lend  me  your  glass,  will  you? 
I  think  I  see  some  one  I  know. ' ' 

"It  's  Trix,"  he  said  after  a  moment,  "making  signs  to 
us  from  the  Sartorio's  box.  They  want  us  to  come  over. 
Come  on,  let  's  go." 

Manlio  and  Gerald  were  again  left  alone  in  the  silent 
company  of  the  pale  coffee-with-milk-colored  maid,  who  un- 
noticed crept  nearer  and  nearer  the  front  of  the  box  to  peep 
at  the  brilliant  house. 

Gerald  was  beginning  to  think  that  Landini  kept  Mrs. 
Hawthorne  rather  longer  than  was  fair  when  the  door 
opened  to  let  them  in,  with  Estelle  and  Leslie  and  Percy 
and  Doctor  Baldwin,  all  laughing  together. 

"Well,  have  you  intrigued  any  one?"  Gerald  asked 
Aurora. 

"Me?  Oh,  /  wouldn't  be  up  to  any  such  pranks,"  she 
said.     "Has  any  one  been  intriguing  you?" 

"I  haven't  been  down,  Mrs.  Hawthorne.  I  have  staj^ed 
quietly  here,  hoping  to  go  down  with  you,  if  you  w^ill  be  so 
good,  merely  intriguing  myself  meanwhile — "  he  dropped 
his  voice  so  as  to  be  heard  of  her  only, — "with  wondering 
v-rhat  kept  you  so  awfully  long." 

"Interesting  company,  funny  sights." 


214  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

"Are  you  too  tired  to  come  down  again  and  give  me  a 
dancer' 

''Bless  your  soul,  I  'm  not  tired,  but  I  'm  going  home." 

^^ Going  home?" 

''Man,  do  you  know  what  time  it  is?" 

"I  know,  of  course.  But  you  can't  mean  you  are  going 
home.  You  only  came  at  midnight,  and  it  's  less  than  half- 
past  two.  Hosts  of  people  stay  until  the  big  chandelier 
goes  out." 

' '  Ah,  don 't  try  to  talk  me  over !  It  's  time  I  sought  my 
downy,  if  I  want  to  get  up  in  the  morning.  We  're  going 
to  begin  Lent  like  good  girls,  Estelle  and  I,  by  going  to 
church. ' ' 

Gerald  was  certain  these  excuses  were  hollow.  It  was 
obvious,  at  the  same  time,  that  Mrs.  Hawthorne  was  bent 
on  leaving.  He  was  vexed.  He  wondered  what  her  real 
reason  was,  as  men  so  often  do,  after  women  have  taken 
pains  to  give  them  in  detail  their  reasons,  and  tried,  ignor- 
ing what  she  said,  to  get  some  light  from  her  face. 

It  looked  to  him  excited  in  a  smothered  way.  He  at 
once  connected  this  repressed  excitement  with  Landini ;  but 
then,  the  face  was  mirthful,  too,  in  the  same  lurking  man- 
ner, and  the  proposals  of  a  serious  man  could  hardly  affect 
even  the  most  frivolous  quite  like  a  comic  valentine. 

He  finally  preferred  the  simplest  interpretation :  she  had 
seen  as  much  as  she  wanted  to;  she  was  prosaically  sleepy 
and  going  home  to  bed. 

*'Good  night,"  she  said.  "Come  soon  to  see  us! 
Adieu;  no,  ory-vwaw.'' 

"Am  I  not  permitted  to  take  you  to  your  carriage?" 

After  seeing  them  tucked  in  their  snug  coupe  and  hear- 
ing this  wheel  off,  Gerald  returned  to  the  great  hall.    He 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  215 

without  question  would  remain  until  the  big  light  was  ex- 
tinguished. Colors,  forms,  sparkle,  golden  haze — a 
painter  must  be  dead  or  a  duffer  to  leave  before  the  gay 
glory  of  it  faded  and  was  dispersed  in  the  gray  dawn. 

The  scene  viewed  from  near  had  its  cheapness,  its  crudity, 
like  those  poor  painted  faces  of  the  dancers  pirouetting  in 
the  midst  of  a  public  they  can  more  surely  enchant  from 
the  distance  of  the  stage.  The  costumes,  so  many  of  them, 
came  from  humble  costumers  who  let  them  from  year  to 
year  without  renewal  of  the  tinsel  or  freshening  of  the 
ribbons.  But  those  very  things  gave  to  this  page  of  life  its 
depth  of  interest,  gave  reality  to  this  romance. 

The  ball  was  taking  a  slightly  rougher,  noisier  character 
as  it  approached  the  end.  Some  of  the  boxes  were  dark- 
ened, but  the  floor  was  full,  even  after  the  tired  hallerine 
had  been  permitted  by  the  management  to  go  home. 

Gerald  himself  now  became  one  of  the  slightly  bored- 
looking  men  he  had  observed  earlier,  strolling  about, 
claque  under  arm,  in  the  rigid  black  and  white  which  took 
on  an  effect  of  austerity  amid  the  blossom-colors  of  the  cos- 
tumes. He  sincerely  hoped  no  one  would  approach  him  to 
intrigue  him,  and  the  hope  found  expression,  more  than  he 
knew,  in  his  countenance.  He  felt  unable  to  meet  such  an 
adventure  in  a  manner  that  would  satisfy  his  taste.  It 
marked  a  fundamental  difference  between  him,  at  bottom  a 
New-Englander,  and  his  friends  of  Latin  blood,  he  thought, 
that  he  had  not  the  limberness,  the  laisser-aller,  the  lack  of 
self-consciousness  and  stupid  shame,  which  enables  them  so 
good-humoredly  to  take  the  chance  of  appearing  fools. 
And  so  before  this  romance  he  was  only  a  reader ;  they  were 
it — the  romance. 

He  could  deplore  his  own  gray  role,  but  not  change  it ;  he 


216  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

therefore  wished  anew,  every  time  a  merry  masker  looked 
as  though  she  might  intend  accosting  him  that  she  would 
think  better  of  it  and  leave  him  in  deserved  neglect.  He 
had  his  wish ;  he  was  in  the  whole  evening  teased  by  nobody 
whatever. 

His  eyes,  straying  over  the  crowd,  sought  for  known 
faces.  All  Florence  had  turned  out  for  the  occasion,  but 
some  of  it  had  by  this  time  gone  home.  Most  of  the  men 
he  knew  had  women  on  their  arms,  and  from  their  silence  or 
talkativeness  one  might  without  undue  cynicism  determine 
whether  these  were  their  own  wives  and  daughters  or  wives 
and  daughters  of  others. 

A  tall,  gray-whiskered  old  gentleman  in  uniform  passed 
him — none  other  than  Antonia  's  friend,  General  Costanzi — 
who  was  trying  to  retain  all  his  dignity  while  beset  by  two 
frolicsome  little  creatures  looking  like  the  chorus  in 
"  Faust, '^  who,  suspended  one  on  each  of  his  arms,  were 
trying  to  win  from  him  a  promise  to  take  them  to  supper. 
He  sent  toward  Gerald  a  look  of  comical  long-suffering,  to 
which  Gerald  replied  by  a  nod  vaguely  congratulatory,  and 
a  smile  that  courteously  wished  him  luck  in  that  lottery. 

The  painter  Castagnola,  broad-blown,  debonair,  passed 
him,  in  a  costume  of  sterling  and  royal  magnificence,  copied 
from  a  portrait  of  Francis  First  whom  he  in  feature  re- 
sembled. At  his  side,  with  gold  cymbals  in  her  hands,  went 
a  figure  in  floating  robes  of  daffodil  gauze,  a  dancer  from 
one  of  the  frescoes  of  Pompeii,  wearing  a  mask — four  inches 
of  black  velvet — only  for  the  form.  Her  bare  shoulders 
and  arms,  of  an  insolent  beauty,  forbade  any  mistake  as  to 
her  identity.  Gerald  knew,  like  the  rest,  that  it  was  Cas- 
tagnola's  model. 

Charlie  passed  him,  at  a  little  distance,  with  a  laughing 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  217 

lady  hitched  to  his  elbow.  Her  mask  swung  from  her  hand 
— the  ball  was  wearing  to  its  end,  and  masks  are  hot.  The 
hood  of  her  rose-colored  domino  had  been  pushed  back  from 
a  mass  of  ruffled  black  hair ;  her  eyes  and  teeth  gleamed  with 
equal  brightness  and  directness  of  purpose.  It  was  sug- 
gested to  Gerald  by  her  air  and  manner  that  she  had  for- 
gotten the  spectators.  Her  freedom  from  constraint  was 
shared  by  Charlie.  Seeing  them  together  reminded  Gerald 
that  Charlie  was  after  all  Italian, — one  forgot  it  sometimes. 
He  tried  to  remember  which  of  the  bits  of  scandal  tossed 
on  to  the  dust-heap  at  the  back  of  his  memory  was  the 
one  fitting  this  Signora  Sartorio. 

They  passed  out  of  sight,  and  he  forgot  them  in  the  inter- 
est of  the  next  thing. 

Carlo  Guerra,  like  him  alone,  stopped  to  chat  with  him. 
Guerra,  a  pleasant  figure  in  Anglo-American  as  well  as 
Florentine  circles,  with  his  fine  head  of  a  monk  whom  cir- 
cumstances have  rendered  worldly,  had,  before  inheriting 
his  comfortable  income,  been  a  journalist.  He  still  en- 
joyed above  all  things  the  exercise  of  the  critical  faculty, 
and  had  much  to  say  this  evening  about  a  recent  exhibi- 
tion of  paintings. 

Gerald  was  hearing  it  with  proper  interest  when  some 
part  of  his  attention  was  drawn  away  by  a  sound  across  the 
house.  It  was,  softened  by  distance,  that  species  of  lion's 
roar,  incredibly  large  as  issuing  from  a  human  throat,  and 
comical  from  such  a  disproportion,  which  had  startled  the 
audience  several  times  already  that  evening.  Gerald 
turned,  without  much  thinking,  to  look  off  in  the  direction 
whence  it  came  and  single  out  the  figure  with  which  it  was 
associated,  when  he  was  surprised  to  find  the  figure  he 
sought  almost  under  his  nose.     Not  more  than  six  feet 


gl8  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

from  him  were  to  be  seen  the  tattered  mantle  and  ragged 
plume  of  Sparafucile;  likewise  the  thick  crow's-beak  of  the 
black  domino. 

The  two  were  looking  at  him  and,  his  impression  was, 
laughing.  He  fancied  they  were  on  the  point  of  speaking 
to  him, — he  had  thought  earlier  in  the  evening  when  they 
came  into  the  box  that  they  might  be  acquaintances, — ^but 
the  crow  suddenly  pressed  tittering  against  the  bandit, 
pushing  and  pulling  him  away.  In  a  moment  they  were 
lost  among  the  crowd. 

Who,  then,  had  been  accountable  for  the  roar  at  the  other 
end  of  the  house  ?  An  imitator  ?  A  double  ?  Gerald  sus- 
pected a  masked-ball  device  intended  to  intrigue.  He  gave 
it  no  more  thought,  but  proceeded,  started  on  that  line  by 
the  episode,  to  reflect  on  the  singularity,  yes,  the  crassness, 
of  Mrs.  Hawthorne's  determination  to  leave  the  ball  early. 
The  secret  of  it  was,  of  course,  that  she  had  no  imagination, 
no  education  of  the  imagination.  A  veglione  was  caviar  to 
her.  This  wonderful  scene,  beheld  for  the  first  time,  per- 
haps the  only  time  in  life,  and  she  had  had  to  go  to  bed  just 
as  if  they  had  been  in  Boston  or  Charlestown !  If  one  must 
go  to  church  in  such  a  case,  it  was  Gerald's  opinion,  one 
does  not  go  to  bed  at  all.  But  she  belonged  to  the  class  of 
people  who  would  miss  the  last  act  of  an  opera  rather  than 
miss  a  train  or  allow  the  beans  to  burn.  A  bread-and- 
butter  person,  a  sluggish,  fat-brained  person,  elementary, 
not  awakened  and  sharpened  to  appreciation  and  wonder. 
If  he  had  not  been  in  such  a  good  humor  he  might  have 
been  cross,  scornful  of  her;  as  it  was,  he  indulgently 
thought  her  merely  too  flatly  healthy  in  every  taste  for  any- 
thing but  the  wilds  of  Cape  Cod  to  which  she  sometimes 
playfully  referred. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  219 

He  here  perceived  that  he  had  entirely  lost  the  thread  of 
Guerra's  talk,  and  that  Guerra,  probably  aware  of  it,  had 
moved  to  another  subject.  It  was  hearing  the  name  Haw- 
thorne that  had  startled  him  to  attention. 

**I  saw  you  earlier  in  the  evening  in  a  box  with  Mrs. 
Hawthorne,"  Guerra  said,  **whom,  you  remember,  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  meeting  at  Mrs.  Grangeon's." 

After  considering  a  moment  with  a  half-smile,  he 
nodded  and  pronounced  in  the  tone  of  an  impartial  critic, 
^^Simpatica!'^  Then,  after  considering  another  moment, 
nodded  again.  *'Ha  gli  occhi  di  donna  huona.^'  Which 
means,  or  nearly,  *'She  has  good  eyes."  And  Gerald's 
esteem  for  Guerra  was  immensely  raised,  for  while  think- 
ing very  well  of  him,  he  would  yet  not  have  expected  a  man 
like  Guerra  to  discern  so  much  at  a  first  meeting.  A 
worldling  like  Guerra  might  so  naturally  have  said  **E 
hella!"  for  Aurora  that  evening  in  her  best  frock,  had  been 
hella — beautiful;  or  he  might  have  said,  ^^Begli  occhi!'^ 
for  her  shining  blue  eyes  admitted  of  that  description. 
That  Guerra  had  said  what  he  said  indicated  finer  feeling 
than  Gerald  had  given  him  credit  for. 

Still  lingering  in  desultory  talk,  the  former  journalist 
now  asked : 

''Have  you  seen  the  Grangeon?" 

''No,"  said  Gerald.     "Is  she  here?" 

"Yes;  she  is  with  the  Rostopchine,  in  a  box  of  the 
third  order."  He  looked  up  and  around  to  find  the  box 
with  his  eyes,  and  after  a  moment  indicated  it  to  Gerald. 
"There !  Do  you  see  them?  The  Rostopchine  in  pale  pur- 
ple, and  the  Grangeon  in  an  Indian  thing  all  incrusted 
with  green  beetle-wings,  a  thing  for  a  museum.  They  are 
talking  with  a  uniform  whom  I  do  not  know.     She  was 


220  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

speaking  of  you  this  evening — Antonia,  asking  me  what  you 
are  doing.     She  has  great  faith  in  your  talent." 

Gerald's  lip  curled  a  little  sourly,  and  he  stood  looking 
upward  without  reply. 

Turning  to  look  down  through  her  jeweled  lorgnette  and 
running  her  eyes  over  the  crowd,  Antonia  now  saw  him. 
Recognition  lighted  her  face  to  unexpected  liveliness.  She 
fluttered  her  hand  to  him  demonstratively. 

After  bowing  and  smiling,  he  stood  quietly,  with  face 
upturned,  receiving  her  showered  greetings. 

He  had  a  certain  knowledge  of  Antonia.  She  was  capable 
of  entirely  dropping  the  remembrance  of  her  bad  treatment 
of  him;  perhaps  forgetting  it  really,  but  likelier  choosing 
merely  that  he  should  forget  it.  She  permitted  herself  the 
caprices  of  a  spoiled  beauty. 

A  classic  golden  fillet  this  evening  bound  her  gray  locks ; 
a  jewel  depending  from  it  sparkled  upon  the  deeply  lined 
forehead  of  a  brain-worker.  Her  irreparably  withered 
neck  was  clasped  by  an  Indian  necklace,  showy  as  a  piece 
of  stage  jewelry.  Lightminded  smiles  wreathed  her 
heavy  face.  Where  her  sleeves  stopped  there  began  the 
soft  and  serried  wrinkles  of  those  long,  long  buttonless 
gloves  which  Sarah  Bernhardt  had  brought  into  fashion. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  see  in  what  illusion  Antonia  chose 
to  live  to-night.  Her  readers  might  even,  perhaps,  have 
determined  which  of  her  own  heroines  she  personated. 

For  all  these  things  Gerald  liked  his  old  friend  the  more. 

Her  lips  framed  the  words,  ''Come  up!  Come  up!" 
while  her  hand  made  the  equivalent  signs. 

He  nodded  assent,  and  with  Guerra  walking l^eside  him 
started  on  his  way.  Guerra  under  the  central  box  ex- 
cused himself  and  turned  back,  having  already  paid  his 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  221 

respects.  Gerald,  once  out  iu  the  lobby,  advanced  more 
uncertainly,  finally  hesitated  and  stopped. 

He  was  not  sure  he  wished  to  see  Antonia  in  circum- 
stances which  would  not  allow  him  to  express  his  resent- 
ment of  her  behavior  toward  the  friend  whom  with  her 
formal  permission  he  had  brought  to  her  house.  It  was 
owed  to  Mrs.  Hawthorne  not  to  let  the  incident  pass.  He 
had  ceased  to  be  furious  at  Antonia;  he  had  not  written 
in  cold  blood  the  wrathful,  finishing  letter  planned  in  heat 
of  brain.  That,  after  all,  was  Antonia  as  he  had  always 
known  her  and  been  her  friend :  Antonia,  capable  of  hero- 
isms and  generosities,  fineness  and  insight,  density  and 
petulance.  One  could  not  drop  the  great  woman  into  the 
waste-basket  because  on  one  occasion  more  she  had  been 
perverse  and  the  sufferer  happened  to  be  oneself.  But 
the  great  woman,  thought  Gerald,  needed  a  sober  word 
spoken  to  her.  In  conclusion,  he  would  not  go  to  see  her, 
no,  until  he  could  have  it  out  with  her. 

And  so  instead  of  seeking  Antonia  in  her  box,  Gerald 
cut  short  his  difficulty  by  going  home.  It  was  high  time ; 
it  had  been  Lent  for  hours.  If  Antonia  were  intrigata  at 
his  failure  to  appear,  it  would  only  be  in  keeping  with  the 
fanciful  circumstances  of  the  hour  and  place. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

EARLY  in  Lent  the  weather  treated  Florence  to  what 
Aurora  and  Estelle  called  a  cold  snap.  Their  sur- 
prise and  indignation  were  extreme.  That  Italy, 
sunny  Italy,  should  feel  herself  free  to  have  these  alpine 
or  polar  fancies! 

Estelle  showed  what  she  thought  of  it  by  taking  cold. 
Aurora  affected  wearing  her  furs  in  the  house.  To  in- 
crease their  sense  of  ill  usage,  they  would  now  and  then 
turn  their  faces  away  from  the  fire  and  sigh,  admiring 
how  the  air  was  dimmed  by  a  puff  of  silver  smoke.  These 
pilgrims  from  a  Northern  climate,  who  knew  so  well  the 
sensation  of  breath  freezing  in  the  nostrils  and  numbness 
seizing  the  nose  when  on  certain  winter  days  they  stepped 
from  their  houses  into  the  snow-piled  streets  at  home,  could 
not  admit  that  in  the  City  of  Flowers  one  should  catch 
sight  of  one's  breath, — indoors,  too. 

The  little  monthly  roses,  shivering  but  brave,  blooming 
still,  or  blooming  already,  out  in  the  garden,  bore  witness, 
after  all,  to  the  clemency  of  the  winter,  and  upheld  the 
city's  title  to  its  name.  The  garden  altogether  was  nearly 
as  green  as  ever.  Against  alaternus,  ivy,  myrtle,  laures- 
tine  the  season  could  not  prevail.  Aurora  decided  that 
the  blame  for  their  discomfort  rested  with  the  house;  she 
planned  drastic  and  fundamental  improvements  which  it 
was  quite  certain  the  noble  landlord  would  not  permit  her 
to  carry  out. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  223 

What  with  Estelle  being  half  sick  and  herself,  as  she 
claimed,  half  frozen,  Aurora  at  the  end  of  a  day  during 
which  the  sun  had  not  lighted  the  world  by  one  feeblest 
ray,  and  the  night  had  closed  down  thick  and  damp,  was 
just  a  little  disposed  to  low  spirits.  She  had  not  been  out, 
and  nobody  had  come  to  see  her.  She  felt  the  weariness 
that  follows  for  certain  sociable  natures  upon  a  long 
stretch  of  hours  without  renewal  from  outside. 

She  sensibly  reacted  against  it  by  making  the  sitting- 
room  as  cozy  as  she  could,  drawing  close  the  crushed-straw- 
berry curtains,  piling  wood  on  the  fire,  placing  a  screen 
so  that  it  shielded  her  chair  and  table  from  the  draft ;  and, 
seated  in  her  chimney-corner,  took  up  a  piece  of  knit- 
ting. 

She  was  not  very  fond  of  reading,  and  she  was  5ond  of 
knitting  large  soft  woolly  afghans,  of  which  she  made 
presents  to  her  friends.  Reading  seemed  to  her,  anyhow, 
a  rather  idle  thing  to  be  doing.  Knitting  came  under  the 
head  of  work.  How  often  had  her  story-paper  been 
snatched  from  her  when  she  was  a  girl,  and  a  sock  to  knit 
thrust  in  her  hand,  with  the  bidding  to  be  about  something 
useful.  How  she  had  hated  it.  But  now  that  she  was  free 
she  still  had  a  better  conscience  when  she  knit. 

To  the  click  of  her  long  wooden  needles  she  thought,  with 
more  pleasure  than  was  afforded  by  any  other  vision  at 
the  moment,  of  a  hot  water  bottle  gently  warming  the  bed 
into  which  she  meant  to  creep  at  exactly  nine  o'clock. 
This  hour  she  had  set  when  at  eight  already  the  temptation 
to  go  to  bed  and  forget  the  unsatisfactory  day  in  sound 
warm  slumbers  had  been  so  strong  as  to  make  yielding  to 
it  appear  wrong. 

These  vestiges  of  Puritanism  Aurora  did  not  recognize 


224  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

as  such,  but  yet  her  mind  as  she  was  practicing  self-dis- 
cipline turned,  without  seeking  for  the  reason,  toward  the 
person  who  had  done  most  to  inculcate  in  her  the  doctrine 
that  if  you  like  to  do  a  thing  that  itself  is  almost  surely  a 
sign  of  the  thing  being  wicked,  and  that  if  you  dislike  it 
it  is  very  probably  your  duty. 

While  she  continued  to  appear  the  signora  to  whom  the 
servants'  eyes  were  accustomed,  albeit  a  trifle  more  absent 
and  unsmiling,  she  was  to  herself  a  young  girl  in  a  far 
country,  living  and  moving  in  scenes  of  difficulty  and  mis- 
understanding with  a  sharp-chinned,  narrow-chested,  tim- 
idly-beloved just  woman — her  mother,  long  since  laid  to 
rest.  ,  .  . 

There  was  nothing  from  outside  to  dispel  the  faint 
heartache  accompanying  this  retrospection ;  wind  and  rain 
against  the  windows  were  more  proper  to  increase  the 
melancholy,  and  Aurora,  suddenly  sick  of  staying  up  to 
be  blue,  wound  her  yarn  to  start  for  bed.  But  first,  for 
just  a  moment,  she  would  go  down-stairs,  she  thought,  and 
have  a  look  at  her  portrait,  for  that  was  the  most  comfort- 
ing thing  to  do  that  she  could  think  of.  She  loved  her 
portrait  as  a  child  loves  its  favorite  toy. 

This  she  was  intending  when  the  sound  of  the  door-bell 
at  once  stopped  and  cheered  her  by  the  possibility  it  held 
out  of  some  diversion.     Vitale  entered  with  a  package. 

Catching  in  what  he  said  the  name  Gaetano,  Aurora  took 
it  to  mean  that  Gaetano  had  brought  the  package.  He 
was  waiting  below,  she  did  not  doubt.  Gaetano  was  Gio- 
vanna's  nephew,  and  had  more  than  once  come  on  errands 
from  Gerald.  Saying,  ^' Aspetiare!'*  she  hastened  into  her 
room  for  the  porte-monnaie  which  resided  in  her  top 
drawer.     From  this  she  drew  a  reward  that  should  make 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  225 

the  journey  through  night  and  rain  from  Gerald's  house 
to  hers  seem  no  hardship.     Iler  blues  had  vanished. 

Before  removing  the  rain-splashed  nev^spaper,  she  gazed 
for  a  moment  at  the  package,  trying  to  guess  what  it 
could  be.  It  was  square,  flat,  about  a  foot  and  a  half  one 
way  by  a  foot  the  other.  What  was  Gerald  Fane  sending 
her  like  that  without  any  enlightening  missive?  A  note 
might  be  inside.  She  cut  the  string,  took  off  the  news- 
paper, to  find  a  second  wrapper  of  clean  white  drawing- 
paper.  After  touching  and  pinching,  she  guessed  the  ob- 
ject to  be  a  picture-frame  and  picture.  Filled  with  curi- 
osity, she  pulled  off  the  last  wrapping,  and  with  a  face  at 
first  very  blank  stared  before  her.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  painting,  one  of  the  kind  she  had  seen  at 
Gerald's  studio  and  not  liked. 

Different  though  it  was  from  the  portrait  down-stairs, — 
as  different  as  poverty  from  riches,  as  twilight  from  day, 
— she  could  yet  see  that  this  also  was  meant  for  a  portrait 
of  herself.  She  remembered  tying  that  blue  neckerchief 
over  her  head  and  under  her  chin  one  evening,  trying  to 
look  like  an  Italian  in  her  pezzola,  to  make  the  others  laugh. 

She  stood  the  picture  on  the  chair  which  she  had  pulled 
up  before  her  so  as  to  rest  her  feet  on  the  rung,  off  the 
stone  floor,  still  to  be  felt,  she  imagined,  through  the  rug. 
Of  course  it  was  herself,  but  how  disappointing — disap- 
pointing enough  to  shed  tears  over — to  have  this  held  up  to 
her  after  that  lovely  being  down-stairs!  How  unkind  of 
her  friend  Gerald ! 

Unfair,  too,  for  although  this,  in  not  being  a  beauty,  was 
obviously  more  like  her  than  the  other,  she  could  not  admit 
that  it  was  any  truer.  She  could  not  believe  that  she  ever 
really  looked  like  this,  though  she  knew  that  it  was  the 


226  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

way  she  sometimes  felt.  How  had  Gerald  known  she  ever 
felt  like  this? 

That  she  was  a  person  who  ate  well,  slept  well,  felt  well, 
loved  fun,  was  giving  and  gay — that  was  all  most  people 
knew,  or  were  entitled  to  know,  of  her;  all  she  knew  of 
herself  a  good  deal  of  the  time.  Such  things  could  never 
be  the  whole  of  any  person,  of  course.  Every  one  has  had 
something  to  overcome.  Some  persons  have  had  to  over- 
come and  overcome  and  overcome,  one  thing  after  another, 
one  thing  after  another,  that  has  tried  to  drag  and  keep 
them  down.  She  had  had — probably  because,  as  her 
mother  often  told  her,  she  was  born  with  such  a  lot  of  the 
devil  in  her — a  great  many  trials  sent  to  her,  for  her  dis- 
cipline, no  doubt,  her  cleansing;  but  she  had  come  out  of 
them  still  unreduced,  still  eager  for  a  good  time. 

All  persons  are  made  up,  in  a  way,  of  these  experiences 
of  the  past,  but  they  don't  expose  them  in  their  faces,  they 
forget  them  as  much  as  they  can. 

Yes,  as  much  as  they  can.  How  much  is  that  ?  The  only 
true  sorrows  being  involved  with  one's  affections,  and  the 
objects  of  one's  love  never  far  from  one's  thoughts,  how 
much  could  a  person  be  said  to  forget  her  sorrows,  really? 

Aurora  reflected  upon  this  for  some  time,  staring  the 
while  at  her  portrait.  The  face  looking  back  from  the  can- 
vas was  very  like  her,  had  she  but  known  it,  at  this  exact 
moment,  while  the  thoughts  produced,  the  memories  wak- 
ened, by  it  substituted  for  her  ordinary  hardiness  the  deli- 
cate look  of  a  capacity  for  pain. 

As  she  gazed  at  the  portrait  longer  she  liked  it  better; 
from  minute  to  minute  she  became  more  reconciled,  and 
found  herself  finally  almost  attracted.  Something  from 
it  penetrated  her  for  which  she  had  no  definition.    It  was 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  2J^7 

perhaps  the  dignity  of  humanity  confronting  her  in  that 
strong  and  simple  face  framed  by  the  kerchief,  like  a 
woman  of  the  people's, — her  own  face,  but  not  certainly  as 
she  saw  it  in  the  mirror;  a  humanity  that  out  of  the  com- 
mon materials  offered  to  it  day  by  day  had  rejected  all 
that  was  mean  and  contrived  to  build  up  nobleness. 

Half  perceiving  that  this  portrait  in  its  different  way 
liattered  her  as  much  if  not  more  than  the  portrait  down- 
stairs, she,  while  modestly  refusing  to  be  fooled  by  the 
compliment,  yet  felt  a  motion  of  affectionate  gratitude 
toward  Gerald  for  the  sympathy  which  had  enabled  him 
to  pierce  beneath  the  surface  and  see  that  Bouncing  Betsy 
had  her  feelings,  too,  her  history;  yes,  her  bitter  tragedy. 

While  continuing  with  her  eyes  on  the  picture,  she  from 
time  to  time  wiped  them,  and  when  the  door-bell  rang 
again,  aware  of  being  ''a  sight,"  took  the  precaution  of 
retiring  to  her  bedroom,  so  that  if  Vitale  should  come  to 
announce  a  visit, — it  was  not  yet  nine  o'clock, — she  could 
the  better  make  him  understand  that  he  must  excuse  her 
to  the  visitor;  she  was  going  to  bed. 

But  learning  from  the  servant  that  Signor  Fane  was 
below,  she  changed  her  mind,  and  chose  unhesitatingly 
from  her  stock  of  useful  infinitives  the  appropriate  two: 
^'Dire  venire.*^ 

Gerald  found  her  by  the  fire,  her  fur-cloak  over  her 
shoulders,  her  woolly  afghan  in  her  hands,  and  the  picture 
on  the  chair  before  her. 

"Well?"  he  asked  expectantly,  looking  at  it,  too,  after 
they  had  shaken  hands. 

''You  Ve  made  me  feel  sorry  for  myself.  What  's  the 
use?"  she  answered  in  a  little  sigh,  keeping  her  reddened 
eyes  turned  away  from  him.    "Hush!    Wait  a  moment! 


g28  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

I  was  forgetting,"  she  added,  in  comedy  anticlimax,  like 
a  housewife  who  in  the  midst  of  a  scene  of  sentiment  should 
smell  the  dinner  scorching.  She  jumped  up,  and  went 
without  the  least  noise  to  close  the  door  to  Estelle's  room, 
returning  from  which  she  illogically  fell  to  talking  in  a 
whisper. 

''Estelle  's  gone  to  bed.  She  's  got  a  snow-balling  old 
cold.  I  Ve  rubbed  her  chest  with  liniment,  and  tied  up 
her  throat  in  a  compress,  and  given  her  hot  lemonade,  and 
she  lies  there  with  a  hot  water  bottle  at  her  feet  and 
grease  on  her  nose,  and  let  's  hope  she  '11  feel  better  in  the 
morning. ' ' 

''Let  's  hope,  indeed.  I  'm  very  sorry  to  hear  she  's 
ill.  But  she  's  sure  to  be  better  by  to-morrow,  is  n  't  she, 
with  all  that  care  and  those  remedies.  I  hope  you  have  n  't 
a  cold,  too,  Mrs.  Hawthorne.  You  almost  look,"  he  said 
innocently,  *'as  if  you  had.  This  weather  is  dreadful. 
You  haven't,  have  you,  dear  friend?" 

**No;  I  guess  what  you  see  is  just  that  I  've  been  crying. 
Don't  say  anything  about  it.  Don't  notice  it.  Never 
mind.  Come  and  sit  down  by  the  fire  and  get  warm. 
Your  hand  was  like  ice. ' ' 

"It  's  very  bad  out,  and  not  much  better  in,  except  here 
by  your  generous  fireside.     I  haven't  been  warm  all  day." 

**Why  didn't  you  come  before?  It  isn't  what  I  call 
balmy  here,  but  I  expect  it  's  balmier  than  at  your  place. ' ' 

With  her  kindly  unconstraint  she  reached  for  one  of  his 
hands  to  test  its  temperature.  With  a  little  cry  of  ''Mercy 
me!"  she  closed  his  numb  fingers  between  her  palms  to 
warm  them,  as  if  the  blaze  could  not  have  accomplished 
this  end  so  well  as  they. 

He  let  it  be,  not  with  the  same  unconsciousness  in  the 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  229 

matter  as  she,  but  hoping  that  the  soft,  warm  infolding 
would  somehow  do  him  good.  He  had  come  in  the  rather 
desperate  hope  of  being  done  good  to.  As  he  had  been 
about  to  start  out,  having  intended,  when  he  sent  the  por- 
trait, to  follow  close  upon  it,  he  had  found  himself  feeling 
so  ill — feeling,  at  the  end  of  the  dismal  day,  so  indescrib- 
ably burdened  and  ill  and  apprehensive  of  worse  things — 
that  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  giving  it  up.  But  then  the 
wish  itself  to  escape  from  his  bad  feelings  had  impelled  him 
forth  toward  the  spot  glowing  warmer  and  cheerier  in  his 
thoughts  than  any  other,  where,  if  he  could  forget  how  ill 
he  felt,  he  would  naturally  feel  better.  Aurora's  house 
during  the  days  of  painting  the  first  portrait  had  come  to 
feel  remarkably  like  home  to  him. 

So  when  Aurora  released  his  hand,  saying,  ''Let 's  have 
the  other,"  he  docilely  gave  it  to  her,  though  the  fire  had 
already  partly  thawed  it.  Gratefully,  with  the  hand  set 
free,  he  covered  both  her  kind  hands,  which  loved  so  much 
to  warm  things  and  feed  things  and  pet  things  and  give 
away  money. 

Overcoming  his  ordinary  stiffness,  he  pressed  them  right 
manfully,  to  signify  that  he  would  not  speak  of  her  tears 
if  she  wished  him  not  to,  but  here  was  his  sympathy,  and 
with  it  his  penitence,  if  so  were  that,  as  she  intimated,  he 
had  had  a  share  in  making  them  flow. 

''So  you  are  all  alone  this  evening?"  he  asked  in  the 
voice  that  makes  whatever  is  said  seem  affectionate  and 
comforting. 

"Yes.  I  haven't  even  Busteretto.  I  let  Estelle  keep 
him  on  the  foot  of  her  bed.  She  's  perfectly  devoted  to 
him.  And  Clotilde  is  busy  in  her  own  corner  of  the  house, 
going  over  the  bills.     It  takes  lots  of  time," 


230  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

''And  where  is  the  musician  in  ordinary,  the  gifted 
Italo?"  he  inquired,  with  a  smile  meant  to  draw  from  her 
a  smile. 

She  was  caught  without  difficulty.  ''The  gifted  Check- 
erberry  hasn't  been  round  lately,''  she  smiled.  "He 
won't  expose  himself  to  the  night  air  for  some  time.  He  's 
got  laryngitis  so  he  can't  talk  above  a  whisper."  Her  eye 
twinkled  and  she  laughed,  though  what  she  communicated 
was  not  on  the  face  of  it  very  funny. 

He  was  perhaps  calling  attention  to  this  when  he  said, 
"Poor  devil!" 

"Yes,"  she  agreed,  achieving  sobriety,  "it  's  bad  weather 
for  laryngitis,"  and  went  on  with  the  weather,  dropping 
Italo.  "It  's  been  a  mean  sort  of  day,  hasn't  it?  I 
haven't  set  foot  outside.  I  was  already  feeling  kind  of 
blue  and  making  up  my  mind  to  go  to  bed  when  Gaetano 
came  with  your  present. ' ' 

There  was  an  intimation  in  her  glance  that  this  event 
had  not  made  the  world  appear  any  rosier. 

Both  turned  to  look  at  the  picture.  Their  hands  loosened 
naturally;  they  sat  apart. 

"Can't  you  see  why  I  had  to  paint  it,  Mrs.  Hawthorne?" 
he  asked,  speaking  eagerly,  and  as  if  pressing  his  defense. 
"How  could  I  endure  to  have  that  thing  down-stairs  stand 
as  my  idea,  my  sole  idea,  of  you?  And  how  could  I  bear 
to  make  you  a  gift,  a  sole  gift,  of  a  piece  of  work  I  do 
not  respect?  This  may  be  worth  no  more, — I  think  differ- 
ently,— but  it  is  at  least  the  best  I  can  produce.  It  has 
my  sanction.  You,  too,  believe  me,  will  prefer  it  to  the 
other  after  a  while. ' ' 

She  shook  her  head  a  little  disconsolately. 

' '  The  other  you  can,  if  you  must,  keep  in  your  drawing- 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  231 

room  to  make  an  agreeable  spot  of  color,"  he  went  on,  re- 
versing their  parts  and  trying  to  induce  in  her  a  lighter 
humor;  "it  has  that  perfectly  legitimate  use.  In  your 
drawing-room,  you  know,  Auroretta,  among  the  pictures  of 
your  choosing,  it  does  not,  in  our  Italian  idiom,  altogether 
disappear.  This  one  you  will  keep  out  of  sight,  but  will 
look  at  now  and  then,  if  you  please ;  and  I  quite  trust  you, 
with  time,  to  recognize  that  it  was  painted  by  some  one 
who  understood  and  honored  you  more  than  there  was  any 
evidence  of  his  doing  when  he  perpetrated,  for  a  joke,  that 
bonbon-box  subject  down-stairs." 

Mrs.  Hawthorne,  with  soft  and  saddened  eyes  fixed  on 
the  portrait,  again  shook  her  head,  sighing,  ''Poor  thing!" 

''Not  at  all!"  he  protested  almost  peevishly.  *' Please 
not  to  suggest  by  pitying  her  that  I  have  not  represented 
there  a  fine,  big,  strong  thing,  built  to  stand  up  under 
anything!  I  could  slay,  with  pleasure,  at  any  time" — he 
diverged,  carried  away  by  a  long-standing  disgust, — "the 
pestiferous  asses  who  call  my  things  morbid.  I  am  too 
careful  to  keep  true  to  what  I  see.  The  difference  between 
them — I  mean  the  critics  who  call  me  morbid — and  myself, 
is  in  the  degree  of  sight." 

"Don't  get  excited,  Geraldino!"  she  checked  fumings 
which  she  did  not  entirely  understand.  "What  I  meant 
was  that  looking  at  her  has  made  me  think  of  all  the 
things  that  have  gone  wrong  with  me  in  my  whole  life. 
Don't  you  call  that  a  tribute?  You  could  n't  have  painted 
this  picture  if  you  hadn't  suspected  those  things,  and, 
honest,  I  don't  see  how  you  could  suspect  them.  Ever 
since  I  came  over  here  I  've  been  so  jolly.  Seems  to  me 
I  've  been  nothing  but  jolly.  I  've  been  having  such  a 
good  time!     How  you  could  see  under  it,  I  don't  know. 


232  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  've  always  been  jolly  between-times. 
Give  me  half  a  chance,  let  me  get  out  of  the  frying-pan, 
I  'd  be  ready  in  a  minute  to  go  on  a  picnic.  But  I  've  not 
been  spared  my  troubles,  Geraldino ;  you  were  right  there. ' ' 

At  this  reference  to  many  sorrows,  he  found  a  thing 
to  do  more  expressive  than  words.  Sitting  near  each  other 
as  they  were,  he  could  reach  her  without  rising;  he  bent 
forward  and  touched  his  lips  eommiseratingly  to  her  hand. 

He  might  have  known  that  it  would  bring  her  story,  but 
he  had  not  schemed  for  this,  and,  unwilling,  yet  eager,  to 
hear,  was  a  prey  to  compunctions  on  more  than  one  ground 
when,  after  a  little  gulp  and  sniff,  she  burst  forth: 

*'I  've  seen  perfectly  dreadful  times,  Geraldino.  Some 
of  them  were  the  sort  of  thing  you  can  get  over,  but  some 
of  them — upon  my  word,  I  wonder  at  myself  how  I  've 
got  over  them  as  I  have.  The  queer  thing  is — I  haven't, 
in  a  way.  It  will  come  over  me  sometimes,  in  the  queerest 
places,  at  the  oddest  moments,  that  I  am  still  that  woman 
to  whom  such  awful  things  happened,  that  I,  playing  my 
silly  monkey-shines,  am  that  heart-broken  woman." 

*'I  know,''  murmured  Gerald,  and  took  her  plump  hands 
steadyingly  between  his  hard,  thin  ones. 

''I  've  never  had  any  sense,"  she  let  herself  go.  *' Any- 
body can  see  that;  and  when  I  was  younger  I  had  even 
less,  naturally,  than  I  have  now.  Always,  always,  I  wanted 
so  to  be  happy!  I  wanted  to  have  a  good  time.  I  was 
born  wanting  to  have  a  good  time.  And  everything  was 
against  it.  But  I  managed  somehow.  One  way  or  another, 
I  got  to  the  circus  'most  every  time.  My  mother  used  to 
wonder  what  my  finish  would  be,  and  try  to  lick  the  Old 
Boy  out  of  me.  But  it  could  n  't  be  done.  I  'm  just  like 
my  father,  my  dear  old  pa,  who  was  a  sinner.     He  let  ma 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  233 

have  her  way  in  everything,  as  he  thought  it  right  to  do. 
Not,  I  guess,  because  he  always  liked  her  way,  but  because 
after  my  sister,  who  was  a  beautiful  child,  died  in  such  a 
terrible  way  that  I  can't  even  bear  to  mention  it, — she 
caught  fire," — Aurora  hurriedly  interjected,  *'ma  came  so 
near  going  out  of  her  senses  that  pa  humored  her  in  every- 
thing. He  thought  the  world  of  her;  so  did  we  all,  but 
it  could  n  't  be  called  a  happy  home.  There  were  three 
boys,  besides  me, — I  was  the  last, — and  we  were  all  such 
everlastingly  lively  young  ones,  and  ma  was  so  strict ! 
Pa  was  away  most  of  the  time  getting  a  living.  My  pa, 
you  know,  was  a  pilot.  It  wasn't  a  fat  living  for  so 
many  of  us,  but  that  would  n  't  have  mattered  long  as 
we  had  enough  to  eat.  But  ma,  p»or  soul,  because  of 
that  twist  her  mind  had  taken  through  sorrow,  was  al- 
ways seeing  something  wrong  in  everything  we  did;  she 
never  could  be  quiet  or  contented.  The  boys  didn't  get 
so  much  of  it:  they  were  off  out  of  doors  and  later  at 
their  trades ;  but  me,  I  was  kept  in  to  help  with  the  house- 
work, and  kept  in  for  company,  and  kept  in  for  no  other 
reason,  I  guess,  than  because  my  wicked  heart  longed  so  to 
go  out  and  play  with  the  girls  and  boys.  I  dare  say  it 
was  good  for  me.  Ma  meant  all  right,  that  I  know,  but 
ma  was  all  along  a  sick  woman.  We  realized  later  that 
though  she  was  round  and  about,  busy  every  minute,  she 
was  sick  for  years  with  the  trouble  that  finally  took  her 
away.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  didn't  have  a  real 
good  mother,  for  I  did — a  first-rate  mother  who  did  her 
honest  best  to  make  a  good  woman  of  me." 

**I  know,  I  know."  By  a  reminding  pressure  of  her 
hands  he  begged  she  would  trust  him  not  to  misunder- 
stand. 


2S4i  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

**But  my  pa — you  should  have  known  my  pa!"  Au- 
rora's face  brightened  immensely,  and  Gerald  suspected 
that  it  was  like  him  she  looked  when  she  screwed  her  lips 
to  one  side  in  a  manner  humorously  suggesting  a  pipe  at 
the  corner  of  her  mouth,  and  said  in  a  voice  not  her  own, 
*' Golly,  Nell,  can't  you  whistle  for  a  snifter?"  He  could 
almost  see  a  sailor's  chin-whiskers. 

**He  took  me  with  him  once  in  a  while.  Golly,  those 
were  good  times,  if  you  please!  Free  as  air,  all  the  pea- 
nuts I  could  eat,  out  in  the  boat  with  my  pa,  and  catch 
fish,  and  catch  a  steamer  if  we  could.  We  had  an  8  big 
as  a  house  on  our  sail.  He  was  as  good  a  seaman,  my  pa 
was,  as  any  in  East  Boston,  but  he  wasn't  a  hustler. 
But  there,  if  he  'd  been  a  hustler,  he  would  n  't  have  been 
my  pa.  "Wouldn't  for  a  house  with  a  brownstone  front 
have  had  my  pa  any  different  from  what  he  was.  Grandma 
was  just  the  same  sort,  God  bless  her!  easygoing,  jolly, 
come  a  day,  go  a  day,  do  as  she  please  and  let  you  do  as 
you  please.  I  used  to  have  such  lovely  times  at  her  house, 
summers,  down  on  the  Cape,  before  my  sister  died ! 

**It  was  there  I  first  knew  Hattie — Estelle.  Her  aunt's 
house  was  next  to  my  grandma's.  I  used  to  think  her  the 
luckiest  child  that  ever  was  born.  Seemed  to  me  she  had 
just  about  everything — a  gold  locket  and  chain,  bronze 
boots,  and  paper  dolls  by  the  dozen.  We  used  to  play 
together,  day  in  day  out,  one  of  those  plays  that  last  all 
the  time,  where  you  pretend  you  're  some  one  else  and 
act  it  out  in  all  you  do.  We  kept  it  up  for  years.  I  don't 
see  that  we  've  changed  much  with  growing  up.  Seems  to 
me  we  were  pretty  near  the  same  then  as  we  are  now, 
having  our  spats,  but  having  lots  of  fun,  and  wanting  to 
share  everything.    Estelle  lived  in  East  Boston,  too,  and 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  235 

was  going  to  be  a  school-teacher.  It  seemed  to  me  that  to 
be  a  school-teacher  was  just  about  the  finest  thing  anybody 
could  do.  That  would  have  been  my  ambition,  to  be  a 
school-teacher.  But  I  never  got  beyond  the  grammar 
school,  I  was  needed  at  home  to  help  mother.  Then  my 
poor  pa  died — an  accident  down  in  the  docks," — Aurora, 
lowering  her  voice,  began  to  hurry  and  condense, — ''then 
Ben,  then  Joe,  then — will  you  believe  it? — Charlie,  that  I 
loved  best.  They  all  had  the  same  delicate  constitution  as 
ma,  it  turned  out,  and  a  predisposition  to  the  same  trouble. 
Then  finally,  after  going  through  with  so  much,  my  poor 
mother  went,  too,  and  for  that  I  could  only  be  thankful. 
And  I  had  taken  care  of  them  all.  I  was  n  't  twenty -three 
when  I  was  the  last  left.  Doesn't  it  seem  strange!  I 
sometimes  can 't  believe  it  even  now. ' ' 

This  rapid  enumeration  of  calamities  so  great  robbed 
them  of  terror  and  pathos,  yet  Gerald  had  somewhat  the 
startled,  shocked  feeling  of  a  man  who  knows  he  has  been 
struck  by  a  bullet,  though  his  nerves  have  not  yet  an- 
nounced it  by  suffering. 

Aurora,  who  after  the  passing  of  years  could  think  of 
these  things  without  tears,  yet  in  speaking  of  them  to  a 
sympathetic  hearer  had  obvious  difficulty  in  keeping  a  stiff 
upper  lip.  Gerald  turned  away  his  eyes  while  with  her 
hand  she  covered  and  tried  to  stop  her  mouth's  trembling. 

' '  Poor  child ! "  he  said,  with  a  sincerity  which  saved  the 
words  from  insignificance. 

'*Yes,"  she  half  laughed.  ''Wouldn't  one  think  it 
enough  to  sort  of  subdue  anybody,  take  the  starch  out  of 
them  for  some  time?  When  I  came  out  of  that  house  of 
sickness  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  else  but  sickness 
and  death.    It  stuck  to  me  like  the  smell  of  disinfectants 


286  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

after  you  Ve  been  in  a  hospital.  I  couldn't  think  of  any- 
thing but  that  it  would  take  me  next.  I  supposed  I  must 
be  affected,  too.  But  the  doctor  examined  me,  and  do  you 
know  what  he  said?  'Sound  as  a  trout,'  he  said.  'You  're 
so  sound,'  he  said,  'you  're  so  healthy,  that  we  '11  have  to 
shoot  you  to  get  you  to  the  resurrection. '  Then  I  felt  bet- 
ter. He  was  a  new  doctor  that  we  'd  called  in  toward  the 
end.  He  knew  how  I  was  situated,  and  as  he  seemed  to 
think  I  'd  make  a  good  nurse,  he  got  me  a  chance  in  the 
City  Hospital,  where  I  could  get  my  training.  And  Hattie, 
dear  Hattie,  what  a  friend  she  's  been!  She  and  her  ma 
and  pa  made  me  come  and  make  my  home  with  them. 
It  's  since  then  that  we  've  been  like  sisters. ' ' 

At  the  sound,  appositely  occurring,  of  a  cough  in  the 
neighboring  room,  Aurora  stopped  and  listened. 

' '  Dear  me ! "  she  whispered.  "  D '  you  suppose  she  's 
lying  awake?" 

"She  may  be  coughing  in  her  sleep,"  he  suggested. 

"Yes,"  Aurora  said  dubiously,  after  further  listening, 
and  hearing  nothing  more.  ' '  And  if  I  should  go  in  to  see, 
I  might  wake  her.  The  bell-rope  is  right  at  the  head  of 
her  bed ;  all  she  has  to  do  is  pull  it  if  she  wants  somebody 
to  come.  I  was  entertaining  you  with  the  story  of  my 
life,  wasn't  I?  Where  had  I  got  to  ?  Oh,  yes.  Therein 
the  hospital  I  just  loved  it.  Perhaps  you  can't  see  how  I 
could.  I  just  did.  I  had  lots  of  hard  work.  The  train- 
ing was  sort  of  thrown  in  in  my  case  with  other  duties,  but 
there  were  the  other  nurses  and  the  house-doctors,  I  grew 
chummy  with  them  all.  I  had  fun  with  the  patients,  too. 
You  don't  know  how  much  good  it  does  you  to  watch  any- 
body get  well ;  the  majority  get  well.  It  's  good  for  them, 
besides,  to  have  you  jolly." 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  237 

**Your  gaiety  of  heart  makes  me  think  of  the  grass, 
Aurora,  the  blessed  ineradicable  grass,  that  will  grow  any- 
where, that  you  see  pushing  up  between  the  paving-stones 
of  the  hard  city,  and  finding  a  foothold  on  the  blank  of  the 
rock,  and  fringing  the  top  of  the  ruined  castle,  and  hiding 
the  new-made  graves/' 

Aurora,  always  simple-mindedly  charmed  with  a  com- 
pliment, paused  long  enough  to  investigate  Gerald's  com- 
parison, then  resumed,  with  the  effect  of  taking  a  plunge 
into  deep  waters: 

"But  it  w^as  there  I  met  the  fellow  who  did  me  the 
worst  turn  of  any.  .  .  . 

''They  brought  him  in  with  broken  ribs  one  rainy  night, 
after  he  'd  been  knocked  down  in  the  street  by  a  team  and 
kicked  by  the  horses.  I  wasn't  his  regular  nurse,  but  I 
was  in  and  out  of  his  room,  and  if  he  rang  while  his  reg- 
ular nurse  was  at  her  meals,  I  'd  go.  Everybody  knows 
that  when  a  man  's  sick  he  's  liable  to  get  sweet  on  this 
or  that  one  of  his  nurses. 

' '  How  I  could  have  been  mistaken  in  Jim  Barton  I  can 't 
see  now.  Since  knowing  him,  if  I  ever  see  anybody  that 
looks  a  bit  like  him,  I  shun  them  like  poison,  because  I 
know  as  well  as  I  need  to  that  however  nice  they  may 
appear,  you  can't  depend  upon  them.  But  before  I  knew 
him  I  'd  never  stop  to  distrust  anybody. 

*'It  began  with  our  setting  up  jokes  together;  he  could 
be  awfully  funny  even  when  he  was  swearing  like  a  pirate 
about  his  luck  landing  him  in  a  hospital.  Bad  language 
did  n  't  seem  so  awful  coming  from  him,  because  he  was 
so  light-complexioned  and  boyish-looking.  He  was  only 
passing  through  the  city,  in  an  awful  hurry  to  get  West, 
when  he  got  hurt,  and  he  was  madder  than  a  hornet  at 


238  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

the  delay.  But  after  a  while  he  quieted  down,  because 
he  'd  got  something  else  to  think  about,  which  was  getting 
me  to  go  along  with  him  to  California,  where  he  ^d  bought 
a  share  in  a  mine.  And  me,  star  idiot  of  the  world,  it 
seemed  the  grandest  thing  that  had  ever  happened.  I  'd 
never  had  anybody  in  love  with  me  that  way  before.  The 
boys  had  always  liked  me,  but  I  'd  been  like  another  fellow 
among  them,  and  I  'd  never  more  than  just  been  silly  for 
a  week  or  two  at  a  time  over  one  fellow  and  another  at  a 
distance.  And  here  was  a  solid  offer  from  a  perfectly 
splendid  man  who  had  everything,  money  included. 
They  'd  found  several  thousand  dollars  on  him  when  he 
was  picked  up.  And  the  yarns  he  told  about  gold- 
mines! .  .  .  But  it  wasn't  that,  it  wasn't  the  gold-mines, 
it  was  *the  way  with  him'  that  caught  me.  I  guess  when 
you  're  in  love  you  're  no  judge  of  your  man.  We  two,  I 
tell  you,  seemed  made  for  each  other.  He  was  as  fond  of  a 
good  time  as  I,  and  he  loved  fun,  like  me.  We  were  going 
to  California  to  make  our  everlasting  fortune.  You  'd  have 
thought  there  was  no  more  doubt  about  it  than  the  Gospels 
being  true.  And  the  good  times  we  were  going  to  have 
while  doing  it  were  nothing  to  the  good  times  we  'd  have 
after,  when  I  'd  have  my  diamonds  and  he  'd  have  his 
horses  and  things.  As  I  said,  the  diamonds  weren't 
needed ;  I  'd  have  gone  with  him  anywhere  just  for  the 
fun  of  being  together.  I  could  n  't  see  what  I  'd  done  to 
deserve  my  blessings.  I  guess  he  was  in  love,  too,  as  far 
as  it  was  in  him  to  be ;  I  '11  do  him  that  justice. 

"Hattie  and  her  ma,  while  they  had  nothing  to  say 
against  Jim,  wanted  me  to  wait  awhile.  But  Jim  could  n't 
wait.    The  moment  he  was  well  enough  he  wanted  to  be 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  239 

off.  And  I  didn't  care  much  about  waiting  either.  I 
felt  as  if  I  'd  known  him  all  my  life.  So  they  said  noth- 
ing more  and  gave  us  a  perfectly  lovely  wedding  from 
their  house.  They  didn't  see  through  him  any  more  than 
I  did,  and  in  a  way  it  wasn't  strange,  because  he  wasn't 
hiding  anything  in  particular  or  misrepresenting  anything. 
He  believed  all  he  said  about  the  big  money  he  was  going 
to  make  and  the  grand  times  we  should  have.  He  was 
born  with  the  sort  of  nature  that  always  believes  things 
are  going  to  turn  out  right  without  labor  and  perseverance 
on  your  part.  He  wasn't  fond  of  work,  that's  sure. 
What  we  ought  to  have  done  was  find  out  something  about 
his  past;  but  even  that,  I  guess,  wouldn't  have  opened 
our  eyes,  with  him  before  us  looking  like  one  of  ourselves. 
And  it  wasn't  a  very  long  past;  he  was  young.  He  came 
of  good  folks,  I  guess.  I  never  saw  them,  but  there  are 
ways  of  telling.  Good  folks,  but  not  wealthy,  and  so  as 
to  get  rich  easily  he  had  tried  one  thing  after  another. 
He  was  quick'  discouraged,  and  the  moment  the  thing 
did  n  't  look  so  big  or  easy  he  wanted  to  throw  it  over  and 
try  something  else.  Then  I  Ve  come  to  the  conclusion 
he  loved  change  for  its  own  sake — go  somewhere  else,  take 
a  new  name,  and  start  a  new  business,  talking  big.  It 
came  out  after  he  died  that  he  'd  been  known  under  half 
a  dozen  names  in  as  many  States.  There  simply  wasn't 
anything  to  him.  I  don't  believe  he  meant  to  act  like  a 
skunk,  but,  then,  he  hadn't  any  principles  either  to  keep 
him  from  acting  like  a  skunk,  or  meaner  than  a  skunk, 
when  it  came  to  getting  himself  out  of  difficulty.  And  I, 
for  my  sins,  had  to  marry  such  a  fellow  as  that!  It  was 
like  there  had  stood  the  good  times  I  'd  always  wanted, 


240  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

right  before  me  in  the  body,  and  I  took  them  for  better, 
for  worse,  and  got  what  my  ma  said  I  deserved  to  get  when 
she  tried  to  cure  me  of  my  fancy  for  good  times ! ' ' 

''Don't!"  protested  Gerald,  softly.  "Don't  regard  as 
wrong  what  was  so  natural.  All  who  have  the  benefit  of 
knowing  you  must  thank  the  stars  which  permitted  your 
beautiful  love  of  life  to  survive  the  dreadfulness  of  which 
you  have  given  me  a  glimpse." 

' '  The  dreadfulness,  Geraldino !  I  have  n  't  told  you  any- 
thing yet  of  the  dreadfulness.  I  haven't  come  to  it.  I 
have  n  't  come  to  what  makes  her ' ' — she  nodded  toward  the 
portrait, — "look  like  that." 

"Then  tell  me!"  he  encouraged  her. 

"It  isn't  Jim.  When  I  think  of  Jim,  it  only  makes  me 
mad.  My  heart  is  hard  as  stone  toward  him."  She 
clenched  her  jaws  and  looked,  in  fact,  rather  grim.  "That 
he  's  dead  doesn't  change  it.  I  hope  I  forgive  him  as  a 
Christian  ought  to  who  asks  forgiveness  for  her  own  tres- 
passes. I  know  I  don't  feel  revengeful.  There  wasn't 
enough  to  Jim  for  me  to  wish  him  punished  in  hell.  But 
if  you  think  I  have  any  sentiment  because  I  used  to  love 
him,  or  that  I  was  sorry  I  woke  up  from  my  fool  dream 
when  I  once  had  seen  it  was  a  dream —  Not  a  bit  of  it. 
There  was  a  time,  though,  when  I  first  began  to  suspect 
and  understand,  that  makes  me  rather  sick  to  think  of 
even  now.  I  was  so  far  from  home,  you  see.  I  hadn't 
a  friend,  and  I  would  n  't  for  worlds  have  written  back  to 
my  old  friends  that  I  'd  made  a  bad  bargain — not  while  I 
wasn't  dead  sure.     And  I  kept  on  hoping. 

"At  first  we  had  a  real  good  time.  We  lived  in  a 
miner's  cottage,  but  that  seemed  sort  of  jolly.  I  'd  been 
used  to  hard  work  all  my  life,  so  I  didn't  mind  that,  and 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  241 

I  wanted  him  to  have  as  nice  a  home  as  any  man  could  on 
the  same  money.  So  I  cleaned  and  contrived  and  baked 
and  brewed  and  fixed  up.  I  wanted  him  to  be  pleased 
with  me  and  proud  among  the  other  men.  But  pretty  soon 
I  found  I  didn't  care  to  make  acquaintances,  because  I 
was  ashamed  of  the  way  Jim  did.  He  kept  putting  all 
his  money  into  the  mine,  sending  good  money  after  bad, 
and  let  me  keep  house  on  nothing,  and  then  was  in  a  worse 
and  worse  temper  because  the  mine  didn't  pan  out  and 
things  were  n  't  more  comfortable  at  home.  I  began  to 
wake  up  in  the  night  and  lie  there  in  a  cold  sweat,  clean 
scairt.  I  haven't  told  you  that  we  were  looking  for  an 
addition  to  the  family.  That  's  one  reason  I  was  so  scairt. 
But  I  shut  my  teeth,  and  said  I  to  myself,  'This  baby  's 
going  to  have  a  chance  if  his  mother  can  give  it  to  him  by 
not  getting  excited  or  letting  things  prey  on  her  mind.  *  So 
I  kept  a  hold  on  myself  and  didn't  let  anything  count 
except  guarding  that  baby.  I  seemed  to  care  more  about 
it  than  all  the  rest  of  the  world  put  together.  Oh,  I  can't 
begin  to  tell  you  how  much  more  than  for  all  the  rest  of 
the  world  put  together.  I  don't  know  that  a  man  would 
understand. ' ' 

"Yes,  he  would;  of  course  he  would,"  spoke  Gerald, 
gently  reverent,  yet  a  little  impatient;  then  he  qualified 
his  assertion :  "He  could  imagine,  I  mean  to  say,  how  you 
would  have  felt  that  way." 

''Well,  that  matter  was  going  to  be  put  safely  through, 
no  matter  what.  The  first  mistake  I  made  was  not  making 
friends  with  my  women  neighbors,  so  that  everybody  in 
Elsinore  supposed  that  Jim's  wife  was  the  same  stripe  as 
he, — or  that  's  what  I  thought  they  supposed, — and  when 
I  needed  friends  I  could  n  't  think  of  any  to  turn  to  except 


242  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

those  at  home.  The  other  mistake  I  made  was  not  to  write 
them  at  home  and  tell  them  the  truth  and  then  wait  for 
them  to  send  me  money  to  come.  But  I  guess  my  mind 
stopped  working  when  the  shock  came." 

Aurora  appeared  to  brace  herself,  while  decently  consid- 
ering how  to  minimize  to  her  audience  the  brutality  of  her 
next  revelation. 

*'Jim  cleared  out  one  night  while  I  was  asleep,  taking 
every  cent  we  'd  got  and  every  last  thing  he  could  hope 
to  turn  into  a  cent, ' '  she  said,  hardening  her  voice  and  lips. 
Gerald  was  given  a  moment  in  which  to  visualize  the  situa- 
tion, before  she  went  on:  *'I  guess,  as  I  said  before,  that 
I  wasn't  in  my  right  mind  for  a  spell;  all  I  could  think 
of  was  getting  home  to  my  own  folks,  and  I  was  going  to 
do  it  somehow,  though  I  hadn't  a  cent.  I  hadn't  even 
my  wedding-ring.  I  'd  put  it  off  because  my  finger  had 
grown  fatter,  and  he  'd  taken  even  that  to  go  and  try  his 
luck  somewhere  else. — What  do  you  think  of  it?"  she 
mechanically  added. 

She  was  pale,  remembering  these  things.  Gerald  drew 
in  a  long,  unsteady  breath,  oppressed. 

**I  was  going  to  get  home  somehow,"  Aurora  repeated, 
' '  and  I  was  n  't  going  to  waste  time  waiting  for  anything. 
And  how  was  I  going  to  do  it?  I  don't  suppose  I  really 
thought;  I  followed  instinct  like  an  animal.  I  hid  in  a 
freight-car  going  East — " 

A  definite  difficulty  here  stopped  Aurora.  While  she 
felt  for  words  in  which  to  clothe  what  followed,  the  images 
in  her  mind  made  her  eyes,  which  were  not  seeing  the 
things  actually  before  them,  more  descriptive  of  the  an- 
guish of  remembered  scenes  than  her  words  were  likely  to 
be. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  243 

*'I  'm  going  to  skip  all  that,  Gerald."  With  a  gesture, 
she  suddenly  rolled  up  a  part  of  her  story  and  threw  it 
aside.  **But  when  I  came  to  see  and  understand  rightly 
again,  weeks  after,  in  a  hospital  at  Denver,  I  cried,  oh! 
how  I  cried,  and  did  n't  care  what  became  of  me.  Because 
I  'd  lost  him;  they  hadn't  succeeded  in  saving  him.  He 
had  lived,  mind  you, ' '  she  emphasized  with  pride — ' '  he  had 
lived  a  little  while,  he  was  all  right,  perfect  in  every  way — 
a  son." 

His  due  of  tears  was  not  withheld  from  the  wee  frus- 
trated god.  Aurora  gave  up  talking,  so  as  to  have  her 
cry  in  quietness. 

Gerald,  holding  back  a  sound  of  distress,  twisted  on  his 
chair,  not  daring  to  recall  himself  to  Aurora's  notice  either 
by  speaking  or  touching  her. 

"I  'm  plain  sorry  for  myself,"  she  explained  her  tears 
while  trying  to  stop  them.  *'You  can't  be  sorry,  for  their 
own  sakes,  for  the  little  children  who  go  back  to  God  with- 
out knowing  anything  of  this  life's  troubles.  It  's  for 
myself  I  'm  sorry.  I  never  can  bring  up  those  times  with- 
out the  feeling  of  them  coming  over  me  again,  and  then,  as 
I  tell  you,  I  'm  sorry  for  that  poor  fool  in  her  empty  house, 
and  then  in  the  thundering  freight-car,  and  then  in  the 
hospital.  I  see  her  outside  of  me  just  as  plain  as  I  would 
another  person.  Then,  too" — she  dried  her  eyes  as  if  this 
time  for  good — "I  feel  a  burning  here" — she  touched  her 
breast — ''like  anger.  Angry.  I  feel  angry  at  being 
robbed,  in  a  way  I  never  seem  to  get  over.  To  think  I 
might  have  had  him  all  my  life,  like  millions  of  other 
women,  and  I  never  even  saw  him!  And  he  was  as  real 
to  me  all  those  months  before !  .  .  .  I  don 't  see  how  I  could 
have  loved  him  more  than  I  did.    I  'm  hungry  for  him 


244  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

sometimes,  just  as  I  might  be  for  food.  And  then  I  'm 
angry  and  rebellious.  But  I  could  n't  tell  you  against  who. 
It  isn't  God,  certainly.  He  's  our  best  friend,  all  we  've 
got  to  rely  on.  And  He  's  been  mighty  good  to  me.  There 
in  Denver,  when  I  had  n  't  a  friend  or  a  penny,  He  raised 
up  friends  for  me  and  gave  me  the  most  wonderful  luck. 

' '  I  stayed  right  there  in  Denver  till  less  than  a  year  ago. 
I  guess  you  've  heard  me  speak  of  the  Judge.  The  doctor 
in  the  hospital  where  they  carried  me  was  his  son ;  that  's 
how  it  all  came  about — friends,  good  luck,  money,  every- 
thing. When  I  say  I  found  friends,  let  me  mention  that 
I  found  enemies,  too,  the  meanest,  the  bitterest!  I — but 
there" — she  interrupted  herself  as,  on  the  very  verge  of 
further  confidences,  a  change  of  mind  was  effected  in  her 
by  sudden  weariness  or  by  a  deterrent  thought,  or  both — 
*'I  guess  I  've  talked  enough  about  myself  for  one  evening. 
I  didn't  have  a  soft  time  of  it  there  in  Denver,"  she 
summed  up  the  remainder  of  her  story,  "but  I  'd  got  back 
to  being  my  old  self.  You  'd  never  have  known  what  I  'd 
been  through.  I  was  just  about  as  you  've  known  me  here. 
Funny,  isn't  it," — Aurora  seemed  almost  ashamed,  apolo- 
getic,— ''how  the  disposition  you  're  born  with  hangs  on?" 

''Golden  disposition,"  Gerald  commented  soothingly. 
Timid  about  looking  directly  at  her  just  yet,  he  looked  in- 
stead at  the  portrait,  whereon  lay  the  shadow  of  the  events 
just  related. 

After  a  little  period  of  thought  in  silence  Aurora  said, 
with  the  shamefaced  air  she  took  when  venturing  to  talk 
of  high  things: 

* '  I  heard  a  sermon  once  on  the  text,  '  Mary  kept  all  these 
things  in  her  heart.'  The  minister  said  that  it  was  n't  only 
Mary  who  did  this,  but  ordinary  women,  so  often.     And 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  M5 

I  know  from  myself  how  true  it  is.  You  see  a  woman  all 
dressed  up  at  a  party,  laughing  with  the  others,  dancing 
perhaps,  and  she  11  be  saying  inside  of  herself,  *If  baby 
had  lived,  he  'd  have  been  three  years  old.*  Or  thirteen, 
or  thirty.  I  've  no  doubt  it  goes  on  as  long  as  she  lives. 
And  she  can  see  him  before  her  just  as  plain,  as  he  would 
have  been.  .  .  .  My  baby  would  have  been  five  last  Oc- 
tober." 

Gerald  remembered  how  sweet  he  had  always  thought  it 
of  her  to  wish  to  stop  and  fondle  little  children,  often  wee 
beggars,  stuffing  little  grimy  fists  with  pennies,  not  avoid- 
ing to  touch  soiled  little  cheeks  with  her  clean  gloves.  He 
had  attributed  this  propensity  to  a  simple  womanly  talent 
for  motherliness. 

**I  've  got  this  to  be  thankful  for,"  she  came  out  again 
from  silence,  farther  down  along  the  line  of  her  medita- 
tions, ''that  he  did  live  for  a  few  hours.  I  've  got  a  son, 
just  as  much  as  if  he  'd  grown  to  be  a  man."  She  was 
dry-eyed,  almost  joyful  in  this. 

''Yes,  yes,"  hurried  Gerald,  consolingly;  "that  's  what 
you  must  always  think  of — that  and  not  the  other  things. 
You  must  lay  hold  of  that  thought  and  feel  rich  in  it.  But 
hear  me,  dear  friend — me,  trying  to  suggest  ways  to  you 
of  being  brave  and  cheerful !  You,  who  do  from  god-given 
temperament  what  I  can  only  see  as  a  right  aim  of  aspira- 
tion, by  light  of  a  certain  philosophy  arrived  at  in  my 
own  way,  through  my  own  experiences.  Philosophy  is  not 
the  right  word,  either ;  the  feeling  I  have  is  mainly  esthetic. 
In  order  not  to  be  too  unhappy  in  this  world,  in  order  to 
have  a  little  serenity,  we  must  forgive  everything,  Aurora ; 
that  is  what  I  have  clearly  seen.  It  's  the  only  way.  We 
must  forgive  events  just  as  we  forgive  persons.    And  we 


M6  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

must  love  life.  I  who  so  much  of  the  time  hate  life,  yet 
know  better.  We  must  love  it  as  we  must  love  our  enemies. 
The  wherefore  is  a  mystery,  but  peace  of  heart  and  beauty 
of  life  are  involved  with  doing  it.  We  mustn't  mind  be- 
ing wounded,  crucified.  We  must  n  't  mind  anything,  Au- 
rora !  We  must  n  't  be  angry,  the  gestures  of  it  are  ugly. 
I,  who  am  always  being  angry,  who  sometimes  groan  aloud 
my  thoughts  are  so  blasphemously  bitter,  I  am  telling  you 
what  I  at  bottom  know.  The  game  is  so  unfair,  it  calls 
for  magnanimity  on  our  part  to  stake  handsomely  and  lose 
patiently.  Patience,  that  's  it !  We  must  be  patient — pa- 
tient as  a  cab-horse!  Pride  and  dignity  demand  that  we 
be  patient,  absolutely.  For  the  sake  of  certain  beautiful 
things  and  sweet  people  in  the  world,  we  must  give  it  a 
good  name.  But  hear  me!  Hear  me  giving  counsels  to 
you — you  who  without  formulating  these  ideas  act  on  them, 
whilst  with  me  they  are  things  which  I  see  as  fit  to  be  done 
but  can  never  hope  to  do. ' ' 

**You,  too,  Gerald,  poor  boy,"  was  Aurora's  simple  re- 
ply— ''you,  too,  have  had  lots  to  try  you." 

He  swept  aside  by  a  gesture  the  subject  of  his  trials, 
removed  it  altogether  from  the  horizon,  unwilling  really 
that  the  interest  be  shifted  from  her  to  him.  She  was 
equally  determined,  now  that  he  had  sympathized  with 
her,  to  sympathize  with  him. 

'*I  know  you  have,"  she  insisted;  ''I  know  you  've  had 
lots  to  try  you,  just  as  you  knew  that  I  'd  had  lots.  And 
you  're  so  high-strung,  so  sensitive  ...  I  never  knew  any- 
body like  you.  But  there  are  good  times  coming  for  you ; 
I  'm  sure  of  it." 

''I  don't  in  the  least  expect  them."  He  laughed  a  little 
harshly.     He  had  winced  at  her  description  of  him  as  sen- 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  247 

sitive,  high-strung.  ''Dear  incurable  optimist,  I  don't  in 
the  least  expect  them.  It  's  not  because  there  will  be  com- 
pensation that  I  hold  it  the  decentest  thing  to  put  up  with 
the  mechancetes  of  fate,  fate's  ingenious  stabs  in  the  ten- 
der, as  they  come,  without  giving  the  exhibition  of  one's 
vulnerability,  or  poisoning  one's  system  with  hate!" 

''But  there  will,"  she  continued  to  insist,  "there  will 
be  compensations.  I  know  it  just  as  well.  .  .  .  You  have 
so  much  talent,  it  's  perfectly  wonderful,  and  it  's  only  a 
question  of  time  your  having  the  success  you  deserve.  I, 
of  course,  am  not  educated  up  to  your  paintings,  but  even 
I  am  beginning  to  see  something  more  than  I  did  at  first. 
I  can  see,  for  instance,  that  almost  any  fine  painter,  with 
a  command  of  his  colors,  could  have  done  the  picture  down- 
stairs, but  that  only  you  in  the  whole  world  could  have 
done  this  one  here.  But,  I  say  again,  my  opinion  isn't 
worth  anything.  But  there  's  Leslie,  who  knows  all  about 
art  and  such  things,  doesn't  she?  Well,  she  's  told  me 
how  wonderful  you  are.  From  what  she  's  told  me  I  'm 
perfectly  sure  you  '11  make  your  mark  in  the  world. ' ' 

Again  Gerald  swept  her  words  aside  like  noxious  ob- 
scuring cobwebs.  "What  is,  few  know,  and  what  will  be, 
nobody  knows  whatever,"  he  said.  "But  of  all  things,  I 
beg,  I  beg  you  will  not  think  of  me  as  a  misunderstood 
genius!  Art  is  not  a  passion  with  me,  it  is — an  interest. 
And  don't  hold  out  for  a  lure  that  will  reconcile  me,  my 
dear  friend,  anything  so  vulgar  as  success!  The  single 
hope  I  have,  when  I  am  the  most  hopeful,  is  that  simply 
my  metal,  my  resistance,  may  never  quite  fail.  I  shall 
not  have  success,  dear  lady,  though  in  your  kindness  you 
predict  it.  I  shall  go  on  and  on  seeing  with  different  eyes 
from  other  people,  carving  my  cherry-stones  in  my  own 


M8  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

way,  and  made  unsociable  by  the  failure  of  others  to  see 
how  superior  my  way  is.  I  shall  go  on  growing  more 
eccentric  and  solitary,  and  call  myself  lucky  quite  beyond 
my  merits  if  those  particular  snares  which  the  devil  Mel- 
ancholy sets  for  the  solitary  may  be  escaped,  that  I  may 
neither  drink,  nor  drug  myself,  nor  shoot  myself,  nor  marry 
the  cook!" 

''Don't  talk  like  that,  Gerald!"  cried  Aurora.  ''Don't 
say  anything  so  awful!  Now  keep  still  while  I  talk,  lis- 
ten while  I  tell  you.  You  're  going  on  painting  in  your 
own  way,  but  some  one — see? — some  one  is  going  to  arise 
bright  enough  to  recognize  how  perfectly  wonderful  your 
pictures  are.  Keep  still.  You  mustn't  despise  success, 
you  know,  success  is  what  everybody  needs  and  wants. 
You  're  going  to  succeed.  Keep  still.  Stupid  people  will 
want  to  buy  your  pictures  because  the  people  who  know 
about  such  things  have  told  the  public  how  wonderful  they 
are.  Then  you  '11  grow  rich  and  famous.  You  w^on't  be 
either  eccentric  or  solitary.  You  '11  have  hosts  of  admir- 
ing friends.  I  guess  you  could  have  them  now,  if  you 
wanted  to.  You  won't  be  melancholy.  You  '11  be  happy. 
In  your  home  there  will  be  a  nice  wife.  Why  are  you  sup- 
posing you  '11  never  marry?  A  dear  true  beautiful  girl 
who  thinks  the  world  of  you  and  that  you  think  the  world 
of.  And  when  you  're  an  old  gentleman  with  your  grand- 
children playing  at  your  knee,  you  '11  say  to  yourself,  'Au- 
rora told  me  so!'  " 

She  was  all  cheering  smiles  and  dimples  again. 

*'Be  sure  you  remember  now,"  she  said,  holding  up  a 
finger  and  shaking  it  to  mark  her  bidding,  "to  say  to  your- 
self, '  Aurora  told  me  so ! '  " 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  249 

It  was  a  pity  almost  that  Gerald  should  not  have  gone 
home  at  that  point.  He  would  have  left  with  undividedly 
fond  and  approving  feelings;  he  would  have  left  tied  to 
Aurora  by  a  thousand  sweet  humanities  in  common,  as  well 
as  impressed  afresh  by  the  depth  and  mysteriousness  of 
woman.  But  he  had  either  forgotten  or  was  disregarding 
the  hour — the  clock  on  the  mantel-piece,  like  most  orna- 
mental clocks,  was  not  going;  the  bliss  of  being  warm  for 
the  first  time  in  days,  warm  through  and  through,  warm 
to  the  middle  of  his  heart,  made  him  careless  of  correct- 
ness; and  so  he  stayed  on,  to  be  rudely  jarred  by  and  by 
out  of  his  contentment,  and  take  with  him  finally  into  the 
night  a  renewed,  even  sharpened,  perception  of  those  ex- 
asperating faults  which  made  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  as  he  named 
it,  impossible. 

Because  they  seemed  to  be  on  such  solid  terms  of  friend- 
ship after  the  long  evening  before  the  fire,  when  they  had 
sorrowed  together  and  sympathized ;  when  he  had  been  per- 
mitted to  hold  and  press  her  hands ;  when  with  a  veritable 
mutual  outgoing  of  the  heart  they  had  vied  in  prophesying 
for  each  other  fair  and  happy  days,  Gerald  found  the 
boldness — and  found  it  without  much  strain — the  boldness 
to  utter  a  request  which  had  burned  on  his  lips  before,  but 
which  he  had  repressed,  saying  to  himself  that  what  Mrs. 
Hawthorne  did  was  no  affair  of  his. 

^'Aurora,"  he  said — she  was  after  this  evening  Mrs. 
Hawthorne  to  him  only  in  the  hearing  of  others, — "Au- 
rora, I  want  to  ask  a  favor,  a  great  favor. ' ' 

"Go  ahead.     I  guess  it  's  granted." 

"I  wish  I  felt  sure;  but  I  'm  afraid.  Say  you  will  not 
take  part  in  the  amateur  variety  show  at  mi-car  erne." 


250  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

"Sakes!"  cried  Aurora,  staring  at  him  with  round  eyes. 
''Ask  me  something  easy!  Ask  me  something  else!  I 
can't  do  that." 

"You  can.  Of  course  you  can,  if  you  wish  to.  You 
have  only  to  give  some  excuse." 

"An  excuse?  Not  for  a  farm!  I  don't  want  to.  I  've 
bound  myself.  They  expect  me  as  much  as  anything.  I 
could  n't  back  out.  It  's  so  near  the  time,  too.  Why,  it  's 
to  make  money  for  the  Convalescents'  Home.  I  'm  a  big 
feature  of  the  show." 

"I  know  you  are,  and  I  have  a  perfect  horror  of  what 
you  may  do.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  the  public  sitting 
there  gaping  at  you  and  laughing. ' ' 

*'The  public  will  be  composed  of  friends.  It  's  all  pri- 
vate. Give  it  up  ?  Not  much !  I  tell  you,  it 's  nuts  to 
me!  I  expect  to  have  lots  of  fun.  You  've  never  seen, 
Geraldino,  how  funny  I  can  be.     You  '11  see  that  night." 

* '  The  voice  runs  that  you  're  going  to  appear  as  a  nigger 
mammy  and  sing  plantation  songs." 

"Oh,  does  it?  Well,  that  seems  innocent.  What  objec- 
tion do  you  see  to  that?" 

"I  did  not  call  my  request  reasonable,  dearest  Aurora. 
I  begged  a  personal  favor.  You  know  the  sort  of  nerves 
I  have.  It  is  like  pouring  acid  on  them  to  think  of  you 
making  a  show  of  yourself." 

She  laughed,  but  would  not  yield ;  she  treated  his  propo- 
sition like  a  spoiled  child's  demand  for  the  moon,  and, 
after  condescending  to  tease  like  a  boy,  he  woke  suddenly 
to  the  fact  of  being  ridiculous.  He  dropped  the  subject 
with  the  abruptness  that  causes  the  opponent  nearly  to 
topple  over  in  surprise. 

He  had  sat  for  a  long  moment  in  silence  when,  realizing 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  251 

that  this  appeared  ill-humored  and  a  piece  of  effrontery, 
he  started  in  haste  to  talk  again,  choosing  the  first  subject 
that  came  into  his  mind,  which  was  a  thing  he  had  meant 
to  tell  Aurora  this  evening,  but  had  not  remembered  until 
this  moment.  The  wide  distance  between  the  subject  he 
dropped  and  the  subject  he  took  up  would  show,  it  was 
hoped,  how  definitely  he  washed  his  hands  of  her  doings. 

**If  you  have  wished  for  revenge  on  our  friend  An- 
tonia,"  he  said,  "you  can  be  satisfied.  She  is  in  the  most 
singular  sort  of  difficulty." 

"Oh,  is  she?  I  'm  sorry,"  said  Aurora.  "Bless  you! 
I  never  wished  her  any  harm. ' ' 

* '  I  went  to  see  her  yesterday.  I  had  saved  up  my  griev- 
ance and  felt  the  need  to  lay  it  before  her.  I  think  one 
should  give  an  old  friend  who  has  behaved  badly  the  chance 
to  make  reparation,  don't  you?  After  being  angry  as  you 
saw  me,  I  yet  did  not  want  to  break  with  her.  She  was 
very  kind  to  me  when  I  was  young.  At  the  same  time  I 
could  not  let  her  rudeness  to  you  pass.  But  I  found  her 
in  such  trouble  already  when  I  went  to  see  her  yesterday 
that  I  said  not  one  word  of  my  grievance.  It  will  have 
to  wait." 

* '  You  need  n  't  think  you  must  pick  her  up  on  my  ac- 
count.    I  don't  care.     But  what  was  the  matter?" 

"Two  of  her  oldest  friends,  through  an  unaccountable 
mistake,  turned  into  enemies.  Both  insist  that  under  cover 
of  a  mask  at  the  last  veglione  she  insulted  them.  Unfor- 
tunately, her  best  friends  are  not  kept  by  their  actual 
knowledge  of  her  from  thinking  it  just  possible  she  might 
desire  to  amuse  herself  with  getting  a  claw  into  them.  She 
has  more  than  once  given  offense  to  her  friends  by  putting 
them  into  her  books.     But  Antonia  swore  to  me  that  she 


252  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

was  innocent,  and  begged  me  to  convince  De  Breze.  The 
villa  she  lives  in  is  his  property,  and  he  has  requested  her 
to  vacate  it.  The  other  aggrieved  one,  General  Costanzi, 
she  fears  may  succeed  in  preventing  the  publication  of  her 
next  novel  by  threat  of  a  libel  suit. ' ' 

''Well,  that  sounds  bad.  But  what  do  they  say  she  's 
done?" 

''The  poor  woman  doesn't  even  know  what  she  is  sup- 
posed to  have  said;  insulted  them  is  all  she  can  gather. 
Both  maintain  that  though  she  tried  to  alter  her  voice 
they  recognized  her,  and  will  not  accept  her  word  for  it 
that  she  wore  no  such  disguise  as  they  describe.  Which 
reminds  me  that  the  offender,  or  the  offender's  double,  for 
I  have  an  idea  there  were  two  masked  alike,  came  into 
your  box  early  in  the  evening  with  a  companion.  You 
have  not  forgotten — that  black  domino  with  the  crow's 
beak?" 

Aurora  jumped  on  her  seat  with  a  cry  of  "Goodness 
gracious ! '  * 

' '  What  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  looking  at  her  more  attentively. 
She  appeared  aghast. 

She  did  not  answer  at  once,  tensely  trying  to  think. 

"Well,"  she  finally  exclaimed,  relaxing  into  limpness, 
"I  've  been  and  gone  and  done  it!" 

And  as  he  waited — 

' '  I  guess  I  did  that  insulting, ' '  she  added,  and  wiped  her 
brow. 

He  thought  for  a  moment  that  she  might  be  acting  out 
a  joke,  but  in  the  next  accepted  her  perturbation  as  gen- 
uine. 

"Can't  you  see  through  it  even  now  I  Ve  told  you?'* 
she  asked. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  253 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Did  you  suppose  I  didn't  really  know  those  two  who 
came  into  the  box,  the  one  who  roared  and  the  one  who 
cawed?     Well,  I  'm  a  better  actress  than  I  supposed." 

*'But— " 

*'And  did  you  really  suppose  I  was  going  home  to  bed 
just  as  the  fun  was  at  its  height?  There  again  you  're 
simpler  than  I  thought.  Land!  Don't  I  wish  now  that 
I  had  gone  home  ! ' ' 

"And  you—" 

"We  'd  heard  so  much  from  everybody  of  the  pranks 
they  play  at  these  vegliones  of  yours  that  we  wanted  to 
play  one,  too — we  wanted  to  intrigue  you  and  a  lot  of 
other  people.  The  trouble  seems  to  be  we  did  it  too  well. 
Land!  I  wish  I  hadn't  done  it!  I  wish  Heaven  I  'd 
consulted  you,  or  some  one —  We  hatched  it  all  up  with 
Italo  and  Clotilda." 

"Italo  and  Clotilde!" 

"They  were  the  two  who  came  into  the  box  and  didn't 
say  a  word,  for  fear  of  being  known  by  their  voices. 
Then,  after  you  had  so  politely  seen  us  off,  Estelle  and  I 
in  the  carriage  put  on  black  dominos  and  crows'  beaks, 
and  after  driving  around  a  couple  of  blocks  came  back 
and  found  Italo  and  Clotilde  waiting  for  us.  Clotilde  had 
put  off  her  black  domino  in  the  dressing-room;  she  was 
dressed  under  it  exactly  like  her  brother.  D '  you  see  now 
how  we  worked  it?  Estelle  took  Clotilde 's  arm,  and  I  took 
Italo 's;  we  separated  and  kept  apart,  and  it  was  as  if 
there  had  only  been  one  couple,  the  same  as  there  had  been 
since  the  beginning  of  the  evening." 

"I  see." 

"I  Ve  been  dying  to  tell  you  about  it  ever  since,  but  I 


^54  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

just  have  n  't  told  you.  I  don 't  know  what  I  was  waiting 
for.  I  guess  I  was  enjoying  letting  you  stay  fooled.  I 
had  the  greatest  time,  bad  cess  to  it!  talking  to  some  peo- 
ple I  knew  and  to  a  lot  that  I  didn't.  Italo  would  whis- 
per to  me  beforehand  what  to  say,  and  I  'd  say  it.  I 
didn't  always  know  what  it  was  about,  but  nothing  was 
further  from  my  mind  than  to  wish  to  insult  anybody. 
I  was  so  excited  I  didn't  always  notice  what  I  did  say,  it 
just  seemed  playful  and  funny  and  in  the  spirit  of  the 
rest.  I  went  up  to  Charlie  Hunt  and  spoke  to  him.  I 
put  a  flea  in  his  ear,  and  I  'm  positive  from  his  face  that 
he  didn't  know  me.  I  came  near  going  up  to  you  when 
you  were  talking  with  that  Mr.  Guerra,  but  I  was  too  much 
afraid  you  'd  recognize  me ;  you  're  so  sharp,  and,  then, 
you  're  the  one  most  particularly  who  has  heard  me  talk 
with  my  English  accent,  which  I  put  on  on  the  night  of  the 
veglio7ie  so  as  not  to  be  known." 

"Your  English  accent?     That  explains." 

"What?" 

"Your  English  accent  is  a  caricature  of  Antonia's." 

"I  don't  have  to  tell  you,  I  suppose,  that  I  had  no  idea 
of  personating  Antonia." 

"The  very  difference  between  the  original  and  your  imi- 
tation might  seem  the  result  of  an  effort  on  her  part  to 
disguise  her  speech." 

"I  've  been  a  fool,  of  course,  and  some  of  the  blame  is 
mine,  but  just  let  me  get  hold  of  Italo  and  watch  me  shake 
the  teeth  out  of  his  confounded  little  head.  I  remember 
perfectly  speaking  to  the  old  general  that  we  saw  at  An- 
tonia's  that  day  and  to  the  old  viscount  who  came  to  my 
ball." 

"Do  you  remember  what  you  said?" 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  255 

''Not  exactly,  but  in  both  cases  it  seemed  harmless.  I 
would  n  't  have  said  it  if  it  had  n  't  seemed  harmless.  I 
couldn't  have  wished  to  insult  them,  how  could  any  one 
suppose  it?  To  the  general  it  was  something  about  a 
horse. ' ' 

Gerald  gave  a  sound  of  raging  disgust. 

Aurora  waited,  watching  him. 

''Was  it  very  bad?"  she  asked  finally,  and  held  her 
breath  for  his  answer. 

"Just  as  bad  as  possible.  Ceccherelli  deserves  to  be 
flayed.  Is  the  man  mad  ?  And  what,  may  I  ask,  did  you 
say  to  De  Breze?" 

"I  only  remember  it  was  something  about  ermine.  I 
forgot  until  this  moment  that  I  meant  to  ask  Italo  what 
the  joke  was  about  ermine.     Was  that  too  very  bad?" 

"Just  as  bad  as  possible.  No,  rather  worse.  Both  re- 
late to  ancient  bits  of  scandal  that  no  one  would  dare  refer 
to — that  would  place  a  man  referring  to  them  in  the  neces- 
sity to  fight  a  duel.  Mind  you,  mean  and  discredited  scan- 
dal. I  won't  resurrect  it  to  enlighten  you.  You  can  in- 
terrogate Signor  Ceccherelli,  who  has  really  distinguished 
himself  in  his  quality  of  habitue  of  this  house  and  your 
particular  friend." 

"I  know  you  're  angry,  Gerald;  I  don't  wonder  you  're 
ready  to  call  names.  But  the  thing  is  simple,  isn't  it, 
after  all,  now  that  I  understand.  The  harm  done  isn't 
such  as  can  never  be  mended.  All  I  have  to  do  is  write 
to  Antonia  and  tell  her  I  was  the  black  crow,  or,  if  you 
advise,  write  to  the  two  gentlemen  I  've  offended." 

' '  Heavens,  no  !  you  can 't  do  that ! ' ' 

"Why  can't  I?" 

"You   can't;   that's   all.    You   can't   admit   that  that 


^56  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

little  vermin  is  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  you  permitting 
his  prompting  your  Carnival  witticisms,  and  you  can 't  hope 
to  make  any  one  in  Florence  believe  you  didn't  under- 
stand what  you  were  saying." 

*'Yes,  I  can,  my  friend;  I  can  make  them  believe.  I 
can  speak  the  truth.  I  can,  at  all  events,  prove  that  An- 
tonia  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it. ' ' 

**No,  no,  no,  I  tell  you!  You  can  do  nothing  whatever 
about  it.  Your  name  must  not  be  allo^Wed  to  appear  in 
the  matter  at  all.  It  would  serve  Ceccherelli  right  that 
his  part  in  the  disgraceful  business  should  be  known,  dan- 
gerous little  beast  that  he  is.  He  would  receive  a  lesson, 
and  an  excellent  thing  it  would  be;  but  that,  again,  might 
involve  you.  One  couldn't  trust  him  to  keep  your  name 
out  of  it.  Besides,  it  would  very  likely  ruin  him,  disgust- 
ing little  beggar. ' ' 

''You  leave  him  to  me !  He  roared  his  throat  to  a  frazzle 
the  other  night,  and  can't  make  a  sound,  but  he  11  come 
round  as  soon  as  he  's  better,  and  then  if  I  don't  give  it 
to  him !  Little  cuss !  .  .  .  But  I  'm  to  blame,  too,  Gerald. 
You  told  me  over  and  over  that  I  ought  n  't  to  encourage 
him  to  gossip  as  I  did,  but  I  went  right  on  doing  it  because 
it  was  as  good  as  a  play  to  hear  him  tell  his  queer  stories 
in  his  queer  English.  It  amused  me,  I  've  no  other  excuse. 
I  sort  of  knew  all  the  time  that  it  was  wrong.  And  so  he 
got  bolder  and  bolder  and  finally  overstepped  the  line. 
And  now  I  've  got  my  come-uppance.  I  '11  settle  him,  trust 
me,  and  I  '11  write  to  Antonia,  and  I  '11  write  the  two 
gentlemen,  if  you  '11  just  tell  me  where  to  write." 

''Must  I  tell  you  again  that  you  are  above  all  things  to 
do  nothing  of  the  kind?  Not  certainly  if  you  think  of 
continuing  to  live  in  Florence.    Leave  the  matter  to  me. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  257 

I  am  well  acquainted  with  everybody  in  question  and  shall 
be  able  to  satisfy  them,  I  hope,  while  leaving  them  com- 
pletely in  the  dark  as  to  the  real  culprit." 

Mrs.  Hawthorne  appeared  to  hesitate. 

**I  really  should  feel  better  if  I  could  confess,"  she  said. 
*'It  would  take  a  whole  load  off  my  chest.  You  see,  I  don't 
know  your  ways  of  doing  over  here;  that  would  be  my 
way.  They  might  all  forgive  rae  and  say  I  was  just  a 
fool.  But  if  they  didn't,  and,  as  you  seem  to  fear,  made 
Florence  too  unpleasant  to  hold  me,  luckily  I  'm  not  tied 
down.  I  'm  free.  I  can  pull  up  stakes  when  I  please 
and  go  pitch  my  tent  elsewhere." 

''The  delightful  independence  of  riches!  The  grandeur 
and  detachment  of  your  point  of  view!"  he  spoke  in  a 
flare  of  excited  bitterness.  ''What  you  have  said  is  equiv- 
alent to  saying  that  your  friends  of  Florence  are  a  matter 
of  complete  indifference  to  you  ! ' ' 

"I  love  my  friends  of  Florence,  and  you  know  it,  Gerald 
Fane!  And  I  don't  believe  they  'd  ever  turn  against  me, 
no  matter  what  trouble  I  'd  made  for  myself  at  that  con- 
founded veglione.  So  I  don't  look  to  leaving  Florence 
just  yet  a  while.  You  know  I  was  only  talking.  I  felt  per- 
fectly safe —  But  it  's  astonishing  to  me,  dear  boy,  how 
ready  you  are  to  get  mad  at  me.  When  you  know  me  so 
well,  too.     You  ought  to  be  ashamed." 

"I  am,  dear.  It  's  my  temper  that  's  bad.  And  you  're 
so  kind,"  he  meekly  subsided.  "But  you  are  trying,  you 
know, ' '  he  added,  after  a  moment,  with  returning  vivacity, 
"what  with  the  extreme  bad  taste  of  your  masked  ball 
adventures,  and  your  obstinate  determination  to  publish 
them,  and  then  your  insane  obstinacy  to  make  a  show  of 
yourself  as  a  colored  nurse  in  this  vaudeville —    But  I 


^58  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

forgot,  I  had  sworn  to  myself  not  to  speak  of  that  again. 
May  I  count  upon  you  at  least  to  leave  entirely  to  me  the 
matter  of  exculpating  Antonia  to  General  Costanzi  and 
De  Breze?" 

'*0h,  very  well,  if  you  think  best/' 

''Will  you  promise  solemnly  to  be  silent  on  the  whole 
matter?" 

''All  right.  But  I  don't  like  it,  Gerald.  If  I  've  done 
wrong,  I  should  feel  lots  easier  in  my  mind  if  I  could  tell." 

' '  That  feeling  of  yours  is  precisely  what  I  wish  to  guard 
against.  Do  believe  that  in  this  matter  the  old  Florentine 
I  am  knows  better  than  you.     Promise." 

"All  right,  I  promise." 

After  a  moment,  "There  's  no  chance,  is  there,  of  your 
changing  your  mind  about  the  other  matter" — he  asked 
sheepishly, — "the  matter  which  I  must  not  mention?  No, 
I  supposed  not.  I  am  perfectly  aware  of  my  presumption 
in  making  any  suggestion  to  you  on  the  subject.  But 
if  you  knew  how  the  thought  of  it  torments  me.  ..." 

"You  '11  get  over  it  when  you  see  me.  You  '11  just 
laugh  with  the  rest." 

"Enough.  Good  night,"  he  said  stiffly,  but  it  is  doubt- 
ful that  the  word  of  leave-taking  was  anything  more 
than  a  mode  of  expressing  displeasure,  or  that  departure 
would  immediately  have  succeeded  upon  his  rising  from 
his  chair,  had  not  a  sound  of  coughing  from  the  neighbor- 
ing room  called  up  before  him  an  image  of  Harriet  Estelle, 
wide  awake,  with  a  stern  and  feverish  eye  fixed  on  the 
clock. 

He  was  startled  into  a  consciousness  of  the  lateness  of 
the  hour. 

"Good  night!"  he  repeated  in  a  guilty  whisper.     *^I 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  259 

daren't  look  at  my  watch.     I  'm  afraid  I  've  kept  you 
shockingly  late." 

The  night,  when  Gerald  went  out  into  it,  was  quieter 
and  dryer.  The  streets  were  altogether  empty.  He  had 
quite  forgotten  having  felt  ill  earlier  in  the  evening,  and 
did  not  remember  it  even  when  he  found  his  teeth  chat- 
tering as  a  result  of  coming  out  into  the  penetrating  night- 
air  after  sitting  so  close  to  the  fire.  A  thing  he  did  re- 
member, as  he  took  out  the  large  iron  key  to  the  door  of 
home,  was  that  after  all  Helen  Aurora  telling  him  her 
story  he  did  not  know  how  she  came  to  be  Mrs.  Hawthorne. 
There  must  have  been  a  second  marriage  there  in  Denver, 
one  of  those  little-considered  episodes  in  American  life, 
perhaps,  that  are  hardly  thought  worth  mentioning.  She 
sometimes  spoke  of  "the  judge."  She  had  spoken  to- 
night of  a  doctor,  son  of  the  judge.  No,  he  decided,  it 
could  not  be  either  of  them.  The  second  husband,  who- 
ever he  had  been,  had  clearly  not  been  important,  and  he 
was  dead,  for  Mrs.  Foss  had  told  him  explicitly  that 
Aurora  was  a  real,  and  not  what  is  called  in  America  a 
grass,  widow.  From  this  second  husband  it  must  have 
been  that  she  derived  her  wealth. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

EVEN  had  Aurora  been  able  to  apprehend  the  meas- 
ure and  quality,  the  fine  shades,  of  Gerald's  dis- 
like to  the  thought  of  her  doing  a  turn  in  the  so- 
ciety variety-show,  it  is  more  than  doubtful  that  she  would 
have  let  it  weigh  against  her  strong  desire  to  take  part. 
It  is  fine  to  have  such  delicate  sensibilities  regarding  the 
dignity  of  another,  but  it  is  foolishness  to  entertain  any- 
thing of  the  sort  regarding  your  own. 

''If  there  's  one  thing  I  love,  it  's  to  dress  up  and  play 
I  'm  somebody  else,''  Aurora  had  said  when  first  the  sub- 
ject of  the  benefit  performance  was  discussed. 

]\Irs.  Hawthorne  was  so  certain  to  give  generously  to 
the  cause  of  the  convalescents  that  it  was  felt  only  fair 
to  flatter  her  by  seeking  to  enlist  the  service  of  her  tal- 
ents; but  apart  from  this,  the  promise  of  her  appearance 
was  counted  upon  to  create  interest.  She  being  obviously 
less  restricted  by  conventions  than  other  people,  there  ex- 
isted a  permanent  curiosity  as  to  what  she  might  do  next; 
and  it  could  not  be  denied  that  she  could,  when  she  chose, 
be  funny. 

With  the  exception  of  one  peculiar  and  superfastidious 
man,  nobody  had  the  smallest  objection  to  seeing  her  dis- 
tort her  fine  mouth  in  comic  grimaces,  or  lend  her  fine 
figure  to  clownish  acts.  There  were  those,  of  course,  who 
called  Mrs.  Hawthorne  vulgar ;  but  too  many  persons  liked 

260 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  261 

her  for  the  charge  of  vulgarity  to  go  undisputed  or  be- 
come loud.    A  good  many  had  reason  to  like  her. 

Aurora  felt  so  sure  of  the  general  friendliness  that  not 
the  smallest  pang  of  doubt,  of  deterring  nervousness,  as- 
sailed her  while  preparing  her  scene;  and  when  she  once 
occupied  the  center  of  the  stage  the  spirit  of  frolic  so 
possessed,  the  laughter  of  the  people  so  elated  and  spurred, 
her,  that  she  would  have  turned  somersaults  to  amuse  them, 
and  done  it  with  success,  no  doubt,  for  all  that  Aurora 
did  on  this  occasion  was  funny  and  successful.  Aurora, 
intoxicated  with  applause,  was  that  night  in  her  simple 
way  inspired.  Her  state  was,  in  fact,  dangerous,  discre- 
tion deserted  her,  and  before  the  end,  carried  away  by  the 
desire  to  please  further,  make  laugh  more,  she  had  done 
a  foolish  thing — a  thing  which  she  half  knew,  even  while 
she  did  it,  to  be  foolish,  perhaps  wrong.  But  not  having 
leisure  to  think,  she  took  the  risk,  and  in  time  found  her- 
self, as  a  result  of  her  mistake,  to  have  made  an  enemy; 
yes,  changed  her  dear  and  helpful  friend  Charlie  Hunt 
into  a  secret  enemy. 

In  an  old  palace  on  Via  dei  Bardi  a  stage  had  been  set, 
filling  one  fourth  of  the  vast  saloon.  A  goodly  representa- 
tion of  Anglo-American  society  in  Florence  crowded  the 
rest.  Beautifully  hand-written  programs  acquainted  these, 
through  thin  disguises  of  name,  with  the  personalities  of 
the  performers.  Only  one  name  was  really  mysterious — 
Lew  Dockstader. 

After  a  lively  overture  by  piano,  violin,  and  harp,  the 
three  Misses  Hunt,  in  Japanese  costume,  gave  a  prettily 
kittenish  rendering  of  ''Three  Little  Maids  from  School," 
selection  from  one  of  those  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  operettas 
latterly  enchanting  both  England  and  America.     The  tub- 


^62  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

shaped  Ilerr  Spiegelmeyer,  dressed  like  a  little  boy  and 
anuounced  as  an  infant  prodigy,  played  a  concerto  of 
prodigious  difficulty  and  length.  Lavin,  of  the  tenor  voice 
rich  in  poetry  and  prospects,  humbled  himself  to  sing, 
' '  There  was  a  Lady  Loved  a  Swine, ' '  with  ' '  Humph,  quoth 
he" — s  almost  too  realistic.     Then  came  Lew  Dockstader. 

Now,  report  had  spread  that  Mrs.  Hawthorne  was  to 
appear  as  a  negress ;  no  one  was  prepared  to  see  her  appear 
as  a  negro.'  The  surprise,  when  it  dawned  on  this  one  and 
the  other  that  that  stove-black  face  with  rolling  eyes  and 
big  red  and  white  smile,  that  burly  body  incased  in  old, 
bagging  trousers,  those  shuffling  feet  shod  in  boots  a  mile 
too  large  for  them  and  curling  up  at  the  toe,  belonged  to 
Mrs.  Hawthorne,  the  surprise  was  in  itself  a  success. 
Then,  as  has  been  said,  Aurora  was  undeniably  in  the  vein 
that  evening. 

She  had  seen  Lew  Dockstader,  the  negro  minstrel,  once  in 
her  life,  but  at  the  impressionable  age,  when  you  see  and 
remember  for  good.  It  had  been  the  great  theatrical  event 
of  her  life.  ' '  What,  have  n  't  seen  Lew  Dockstader !  Don 't 
know  who  he  is ! "  thus  she  still  would  measure  a  person 's 
ignorance  of  what  is  best  in  drama  and  song.  She  loved 
Lew.  When  she  impersonated  him  she  did  not  try  to  imi- 
tate him,  she  simply  felt  herself  to  be  he. 

In  this  character  she  now  told  a  string  of  those  funny 
anecdotes  which  Americans  love  to  swap.  She  sang  divers 
songs,  pitched  among  her  big,  velvety  chest  tones :  * '  Chil- 
dren, Keep  in  de  Middle  ob  de  Road,"  ''Fluey,  Fluey,*' 
''Come,  Ride  dat  Golden  Mule."  With  the  clumsy  nim- 
bleness  and  innocent  love  of  play  of  a  Newfoundland  pup, 
she  flung  out  her  enormous  feet  in  the  dance. 

The  crimson  curtains  drew  together  upon  her  retreat 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  263 

amid  unaffected  applause.  Recalled,  she  gave  the  encore 
prepared  for  such  an  event.  Recalled  over  and  over,  like 
singers  of  topical  songs,  to  hear  what  she  would  say  next, 
Aurora,  a  little  off  her  head  with  the  new  wine  of  glory, 
exhausted  her  bag  of  parlor  tricks  to  satisfy  an  audience 
so  kind.  Then  it  was  that  she  made  her  mistake.  Re- 
called still  again,  she  invented  on  the  spot  one  last  thing 
to  do.  She  recited  a  poem  indelibly  learned  at  public 
school,  giving  it  first  as  a  newly  landed  Jewish  pupil  would 
pronounce  it,  then  a  small  Irishman,  then  a  small  Italian, 
finally  an  English  child.  To  add  the  latter  was  her  mis- 
take, because  her  caricature  of  the  English  speech  was 
very  special. 

The  sound  of  it  started  an  idea  buzzing  in  the  head  of 
one  of  her  audience — Charlie  Hunt,  who  sat  well  in  front, 
and  in  applauding  raised  his  hands  above  the  level  of  his 
head  so  that  actors  and  audience  alike  might  be  encour- 
aged by  seeing  that  he  gave  the  patronage  of  his  approval. 

He  did  not  immediately  connect  Aurora's  English 
with  a  rankling  remembered  episode,  but  the  thing  was  bur- 
rowing in  his  subconsciousness,  and  an  arrow  of  light  be- 
fore long  pierced  his  brain.  He  reconsidered  the  conclu- 
sion upon  which  he  had  rested  with  regard  to  the  black 
crow  who  at  the  veglione  had  put  to  him  an  impertinent 
question.  Could  it  be  that  not  the  particular  lady  whom 
he  had  fixed  upon  in  his  mind,  as  being  fond  of  Landini, 
consequently  jealous  of  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  had  by  it  ex- 
pressed her  spite,  but  that — ?  He  saw  in  a  flash  a  dif- 
ferent possibility. 

When  the  show  was  over  and  the  performers  had  issued 
from  the  dressing-rooms  in  the  clothes  of  saner  moments, 
Charlie  Hunt  approached  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  who,  flushed 


264  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

with  excitement,  was  looking  almost  too  much  like  an 
American  Beauty  rose.  He  paid  his  compliments  in  a  tone 
tinged  with  irony,  all  the  while  watching  her  with  a  pene- 
trating, inquiring,  ironical  eye.  But  the  irony  was  wasted. 
She  was  too  pleasantly  engrossed  to  perceive  it. 

*'Has  anybody  here  seen  Mr.  Fane?"  she  asked  after  a 
time,  when  her  glances  had  vainly  sought  him  in  every 
corner. 

Estelle  told  her  that  she  had  not  set  eyes  on  him  the 
whole  evening;  and,  which  was  more  conclusive,  little  Lily 
Foss  said  he  had  not  been  there. 


CHAPTER  XV 

AURORA,  unable  to  see  beyond  the  footlights,  had 
never  dreamed  but  Gerald  was  among  the  au- 
dience. Her  capers  had  at  moments  been  def- 
initely directed  at  him.  Discovering  that  he  had  kept 
away,  she  was  not  so  much  hurt  as  puzzled. 

*'Who  'd  have  thought  he  cared  enough  about  it  to  be 
so  mean ! ' '  she  said  to  herself.  ' '  Well, ' '  she  said  further, 
**let  him  alone.     He  'II  come  round  in  a  day  or  two." 

She  really  expected  him  that  same  day.  When  he  did 
not  come,  or  the  day  after,  or  the  day  after  that,  she  tried 
to  recall  passage  for  passage  their  talk  on  the  subject  of 
the  show.  She  did  not  remember  his  saying  anything  that 
amounted  to  giving  her  a  choice  between  renouncing  it  or 
renouncing  his  friendship. 

Then  she  reviewed  all  she  knew  of  him ;  and  his  present 
conduct,  if  he  were  by  this  avoidance  trying  to  punish  her 
for  doing  what  it  was  the  prerogative  of  her  native  inde- 
pendence to  do,  did  not  seem  in  accordance  with  his  known 
regard  for  the  rights  of  others. 

Aurora  did  not  know  what  to  think.  From  hour  to  hour 
she  looked  for  a  call,  a  message,  a  letter,  and  because  the 
time  while  waiting  seemed  long,  she  neglected  to  note  that 
the  actual  time  elapsed  was  not  more  than  Gerald  had  some- 
times allowed  to  pass  without  her  attributing  his  silence 
to  offence.  He  had  his  work,  he  had  other  friends ;  Abbe 
Johns  might  be  in  town  again  visiting  him.     This  silence, 

265 


266  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

however,  had  a  different  value,  she  thought,  from  other 
silences.  They  had  seemed  so  much  better  friends  after 
their  confidences  that  long  evening  over  the  fire;  she  ex- 
pected more  of  him  than  she  had  done  before  it. 

At  other  moments  she  was  disposed  to  find  fault  with 
herself.  She  supposed  she  was  a  big  coarse  thing,  unable 
to  appreciate  the  feelings  of  a  man  who  apparently  hadn't 
as  many  thicknesses  of  skin  as  other  folks. 

It  was  at  such  a  moment,  when  she  made  allowances  for 
him,  that  she  thought  of  writing,  making  it  easy  for  him  to 
drop  his  grouch  and  return.  But  here  Aurora  felt  a  diffi- 
culty. Aurora  thought  well,  in  a  general  way,  of  her 
powers  as  a  letter-writer,  and  she  was  proud  of  her  beauti- 
fully legible  Spencerian  hand ;  but  for  such  a  letter  as  she 
wished  to  send  Gerald  fine  shades  of  expression  were  needed 
beyond  what  she  could  compass.  She  was  fond  of  Gerald ; 
in  this  letter  she  must  not  be  too  fond,  yet  she  must  be  fond 
enough.  What  hope  that  a  blockhead  would  strike  the 
exact  middle  of  so  fine  a  line  ? 

She  could  obviate  the  difficulty  by  sending  him  a  formal 
invitation  to  dinner.  But  suppose  she  should  receive  for- 
mal regrets  ? 

After  that  the  whole  thing  must  be  left  to  him ;  the  tact- 
ful letter  meant  to  hurry  him  back  would  no  longer  be 
possible. 

"Oh,  bother!"  said  Aurora,  and  formed  a  better,  bolder 
plan. 

Aurora  had  not  seen  the  plays,  had  not  read  the  books, 
where  the  going  of  the  heroine  to  visit  the  hero  at  his  house 
for  whatever  good  reason  under  the  sun  has  such  damaging 
results  for  her  fair  fame.  Aurora  was  innocent  of  good 
society's  hopeless  narrowness  on  the  subject.     If  she  made 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  267 

a  secret  of  her  plan  to  Estelle  it  was  merely  because  Estelle 
had  permitted  herself  wise  words  one  day,  warnings,  with 
regard  to  Gerald,  in  whom  she  specifically  did  not  wish  her 
friend  to  ''become  interested." 

"You're  too  different,"  Estelle  had  said.  "You're 
like  a  fish  and  a  bird.  I  won't  say  I  don't  like  him.  He's 
nice  in  a  way,  but  it  's  not  our  way,  Nell.  You  'd  be  mis- 
erable with  him,  first  or  last. ' ' 

"My  dear,"  Aurora  had  replied,  "if  you  knew  the  sort 
of  thing  we  talk  about  when  you  're  not  there  you  would  n't 
worry.  If  you  can  see  Gerald  Fane  in  the  part  of  my 
beau  you  must  be  cracked.  And  if  you  think  I  'm  soft  on 
him,  you  're  only  a  little  bit  less  cracked.  Can't  you  see 
we  're  just  friends?  It  's  nice  for  him  to  come  here  and 
it 's  nice  for  us  to  have  him.  We  want  friends,  don't 
we?" 

"All  I  say  is  don't  go  ahead  with  your  eyes  shut  till  you 
find  before  you  know  it  that  you  're  landed  in  a  case  of, 
'Mother,  I  can't  live  without  him!'  For,  Nell,  it  won't 
do,  you  know  it  won 't. ' ' 

"My  dearest  girl,  of  course  I  know,  but  not  half  so  well 
as  he  knows !  Bless  you.  Hat,  do  you  forget  all  Leslie  told 
us  about  him  and  his  affair?  And  do  you  forget  my  lit- 
tle affair?  Do  you  suppose  either  of  us  wants  to  try 
again?" 

"Indeed,  I  hope  you  will  try  again,  both  of  you.  But 
not  together,  Nell.  I  've  got  the  man  all  picked  out  for 
you;  you  know  perfectly  I  mean  Tom  Bewick.  There  's 
the  one  for  you,  Nell.  Big,  healthy,  kind.  Good  sense. 
Good  temper.  Your  own  kind  of  person,  Nell,  and  not  a 
queer  bird  from  a  menagerie.  Don't  go  and  spoil  every- 
thing by  getting  tangled  up  over  here.    You  know  as  well 


268  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

as  I  do  that  Gerald  Fane,  take  him  just  as  a  man,  can't 
hold  a  candle  to  Doctor  Tom." 

*'I  've  never  thought  of  comparing  them.  I  don't  see 
any  use  in  doing  it.  Tom  's  Tom  and  Gerald  's  Gerald. 
So  far  as  Gerald  goes,  you  can  set  your  heart  at  rest  and 
bank  on  this :  I  know  just  as  well  as  you  do,  and  he  knows 
just  as  well  as  I  do,  that  we  couldn't  pull  in  harness 
together  any  more  than — just  as  you  say,  a  fish  and  a  bird. 
Neither  of  us  is  thinking  of  such  a  thing.  But  why 
mustn't  a  fish  and  a  bird  have  anything  to  say  to  each 
other?  He  might  like  the  cut  of  her  fins  and  she  might 
fancy  the  color  of  his  wings.  They  could  sympathize  to- 
gether, couldn't  they,  if  nothing  else?"  Aurora's  eye- 
brows had  with  this  tried  to  signify  her  entire  capacity  to 
take  care  of  herself  and  her  own  business. 

But  not  wishing  to  rouse  any  further  uneasiness  in  her 
friend,  she  no  more  after  that  spoke  frankly  of  Gerald 
whenever  he  came  into  her  mind.  And  when  she  declined 
Estelle  's  invitation  to  go  with  her  to  ]\Ille.  Durand  's,  where 
she  would  hear  the  pupils  of  the  latter  recite  Corneille  and 
Racine,  she  did  not  tell  her  what  she  had  planned  to  do 
instead,  fully  intending,  however,  to  reveal  it  later. 

Gerald  meanwhile  did  not  flatter  himself  imagining 
Aurora  unhappy  because  he  stayed  away  longer  than  had 
lately  been  quite  usual.  Time  dragged  with  him,  but  the 
calendar  told  him  that  just  so  many  days,  no  more,  had 
passed.  He  pictured  her  going  her  cheerful  gait,  occa- 
sionally saying,  perhaps,  *'I  wonder  what  has  become  of 
Stickly-prickly?" 

He  had  not  gone  to  the  mid-Lent  entertainment  as  a 
matter  of  course.    Aurora  had  shown  small  knowledge 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  269 

of  him  when  she  thought  he  would  consent  to  see  her 
disport  herself  before  the  public  as  a  negress.  On  the  day 
after,  when  he  learned  that  she  had  been  the  star  of  the 
evening  as  a  negro,  his  frenzied  disgust  itself  warned  him 
of  the  injustice,  the  impropriety,  of  exhibiting  it  to  her. 
He  chose  to  remain  away  until  it  should  have  sufficiently 
worn  down  to  be  governable.  By  that  time  the  poor  man 
had  developed  an  illness,  that  cold  of  which  for  some 
weeks  he  had  been  carrying  around  in  his  bones  the  pre- 
monition. 

With  reddened  eyelids  and  thickened  nose,  a  sore  throat 
and  a  cough,  he  felt  himself  no  fit  object  for  a  lady^s  sight. 
He  stayed  in  to  take  care  of  himself. 

Giovanna  knew  what  to  do  for  her  signorino  when  he 
was  raffreddato.  She  built  a  little  fire  in  the  studio;  she 
brought  his  light  meals  to  him  in  his  arm-chair  before  it. 
She  administered  remedies.  His  bed  was  warmed  at  night 
by  her  scaldino.  Gaetano  was  sent  to  Vieusseux's  for  an 
armful  of  books.  All  day  Gerald  sat  by  the  fire  and  read, 
and  sometimes  dozed  and  dreamed,  and  read  again.  And 
days  passed,  while  his  cold  held  on. 

He  thought  of  writing  Aurora  to  tell  her.  But  if  he 
told  her,  she  would  at  once  come  to  see  him;  of  so  much 
one  could  be  sure.  And  he  did  not  want  her  to  come. 
The  eccentric  fellow  did  not  want  her  to  come  precisely 
because  he  wanted  her  to  come  so  much. 

''This  is  the  way  it  begins,''  he  said  to  himself,  mth 
horror,  when  he  became  fully  aware  that  his  nerves,  now 
that  he  could  not  go  to  find  Aurora  when  he  chose,  were 
suggesting  to  him  all  the  time  that  the  presence  of  Aurora 
was  needed  to  quiet  that  sense  of  want,  of  maladjustment 
to  conditions,  haunting  him  like  the  desire  for  sleep. 


270  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

At  sight  of  his  danger  he  became  very  clear-headed. 
The  man  who  sees  a  snare  and  walks  into  it  deserves  his 
fate,  surely. 

"It  is  time  to  stop  it,"  he  said.  And  he  laid  down  for 
himself  new  rules  of  life. 

Fortunately,  he  had  at  hand  some  absorbing  books. 
Dostoiewsky 's  ''Crime  and  Punishment"  could  effec- 
tively take  him  out  of  himself. 

But  the  print  was  fine  and  crowded,  he  was  weakened  by 
illness,  he  was  forced  now  and  then  to  stop  and  rest  with 
swimming  head.  Then  at  once  would  return,  like  the 
demon  in  fair  disguise  tempting  some  hermit  of  the  desert, 
the  thought,  "What  is  Aurora  doing?  If  Aurora  knew  I 
was  ill,  she  w^ould  come."  And  the  imagination  of  her 
coming  would  shed  a  feverish  gladness  all  along  those  petu- 
lant, ill-treated,  starved  nerves.  "^Mlat  have  I  to  do 
with  Aurora,  or  Aurora  with  me?"  he  would  ask,  furi- 
ously, the  incongruity  of  what  had  happened  to  him  call- 
ing forth  sometimes  a  desperate  laugh.  But  Nature  laughs 
at  man's  ideas  of  congruity;  remembering  that,  he  could 
only  hold  his  hands  against  his  eyes  and  try  to  press  the 
image  of  Aurora  out  of  existence. 

Gerald,  however,  was  much  stronger  than  his  nerves. 
He  could  see  his  own  case,  even  with  a  pulse  at  ninety,  as 
well  as  another  man's.  And  his  will  was  firmer  than 
might  have  been  thought.  He  knew  something  of  a  hu- 
man man's  constitution,  how  it  can  circumvent  a  man,  or 
how  a  man,  well  on  his  guard,  can  circumvent  it.  He 
formed  the  project  of  interrupting  his  visits  to  the  Her- 
mitage. 

After  this  resolution  he  regarded  those  returns  of  earth- 
born  desire  for  Aurora's  balmy  touch  and  tranquilizing 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  271 

neighborhood  as  a  man  who  had  taken  an  heroic  and  sure 
remedy  against  ague  might  regard  the  fluctuations  in  his 
body  of  heat  and  cold  continuing  still  for  a  little  while. 
As  to  how  Aurora  would  take  his  defection,  all  should  be 
managed  with  so  much  art  and  politeness  that  the  most 
sensitive  could  not  be  hurt.  By  the  time  the  new  im- 
portant work  which  he  would  make  his  excuse  was  accom- 
plished, his  cure  would  have  been  accomplished  as  well. 

Meanwhile,  each  time  the  door-bell  rang — it  was  not 
often,  certainly — his  attention  was  taken  from  his  book, 
and  he  listened.  And  so,  on  Mile.  Durand's  French  after- 
noon, Gerald,  having  heard  the  bell,  was  listening,  but  with 
his  face  to  the  fire  and  his  back  to  the  door.  When 
Giovanna  knocked,  ''Forward!''  he  said,  without  turning. 
The  door  opened. 

*'C'e  quella  signora/'  ''There  is  that  lady,"  dubiously 
anounced  Giovanna. 

Gerald  turned,  and  beheld  that  lady  filling  the  doorway. 

Then  it  was  as  if  a  bright  trumpet-blast  of  reality, 
breaking  upon  a  bad  dream,  dispelled  it;  or  as  if  a  fresh 
wind,  blowing  over  stagnant  water,  swept  away  the  cloud 
of  noxious  gnats.  All  he  had  latterly  been  thinking  and 
feeling  seemed  to  Gerald  insane,  sickly,  the  instant  he  be- 
held Aurora's  comradely  smile.  He  was  ashamed;  he 
found  himself  on  the  verge  of  stupid,  unexplainable  tears. 

"Well!"  said  Aurora. 

At  the  sound  they  were  placed  back  on  the  exact  footing 
of  their  last  meeting,  before  thinking  and  conjecturing 
about  each  other  in  absence  had  built  up  between  them  bar- 
riers of  illusion. 

'  *  Well ! "  he  said,  but  less  pleasantly,  because  he  was 
mortified  by  the  awareness  of  himself  as  an  uninviting 


272  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

sight,  with  his  old  dressing-gown,  neglected  beard,  and  the 
unpicturesque  manifestations  of  a  cold. 

But  Aurora's  face  was  reassuring;  she  did  not  confuse 
him  with  the  accidents  of  his  dressing-gown  and  beard  and 
cold.  Aurora's  face  beamed,  so  much  was  she  rejoicing 
in  her  own  excellent  sense,  which  had  told  her  that  one 
look  at  each  other  would  do  a  thousand  times  more  to 
make  things  right  between  them  than  innumerable  letters 
could  have  done. 

**I  didn't  know  what  to  think,''  she  said,  *'so  I  came 
to  find  out.  First  I  'd  think  you  were  mad  at  me,  then 
I  'd  think  you  had  gone  away  and  written  me,  and  the 
letter  hadn't  reached  me,  Gaetano  had  lost  it  on  the  road. 
Then  I  'd  think  you  might  be  sick,  and  there  was  nobody 
to  let  your  friends  know.  I  don't  know  what  I  didn't 
think  of.    What  made  you  not  send  me  word?" 

**I  did  not  know  you  would  be  uneasy.  I  did  not 
rightly  measure,  it  seems,  the  depth  of  your  kindness.  I 
should  certainly  have  written  to  you  before  long  in  case  I 
had  continued  unable  to  go  to  see  you." 

**How  long  have  you  been  sick?" 

**I  am  not  sick,  dearest  lady.  I  only  have  a  cold.  In 
order  to  make  it  go  away  more  quickly  I  have  to  remain  in 
the  house.  But  how  good,  how  very  good  of  you  to  come ! 
Sit  down,  please  do,  and  warm  yourself.  I  will  ring  for 
Giovanna,  and  she  will  make  us  some  tea. ' ' 

Aurora,  smiling  all  the  time  with  the  pleasure  she  felt  in 
not  finding  him  angry  or  estranged  or  in  any  way  altered 
toward  her,  took  the  arm-chair  from  which  he  had  just 
risen,  while  he  drew  a  lighter  chair  to  the  other  side  of  the 
chimney-place.  His  fires  were  not  like  hers.  Two  half- 
burned  sticks  and  a  form  of  turf  smoldered  sparingly  on 


Gerald   turned,    and   belield   that    ladv 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  273 

a  mound  of  hot  ashes;  he  eagerly  cast  on  a  fagot,  and 
added  wood  with,  for  once,  an  extravagant  hand.  Then, 
looking  over  at  her,  he  smiled,  too. 

*'Now  tell  me  all  about  yourself,"  she  commanded.  "I 
want  to  know  what  you  're  doing  for  this  cold  of  yours." 

''Please  let  us  not  talk  about  my  cold,"  he  at  once  re- 
fused. ''Let  us  talk  about  something  agreeable.  Tell  me 
the  news.  I  have  not  seen  any  one  for  days.  I  have  been 
living  in  Russia  with  a  poor  young  man  who  had  com- 
mitted a  murder,  also  with  a  most  sympathetic  being  who 
found  the  world  outside  an  institution  for  the  feeble- 
minded too  much  for  him."  By  a  gesture  toward  the 
books  on  the  table  he  gave  her  a  clue  to  his  meaning. 

*'You  say  you  haven't  seen  any  one  for  days,"  she  said. 
*'Now  the  Fosses,  for  instance,  who  are  your  best  friends, 
don't  you  let  them  know  when  you  're  shut  in?" 

"You  have  no  conception,  evidently,  of  my  bearishness, 
dear  friend.  They  have.  They  never  wonder  when  they 
do  not  see  me  or  hear  from  me  for  weeks." 

"I  know,  and  it  seems  funny;  it  seems  sort  of  forlorn 
to  me.  I  saw  them  the  other  day  and  asked  if  any  one 
had  seen  you  since  the  night  of  the  show.  They  said  no, 
but  didn't  seem  to  think  anything  about  it." 

"It  's  not  really  long  since  then.     How  are  they  all ? " 

"All  right,  and  busy  as  bees.  They  've  no  time  to  come 
and  see  me,  or  anybody  else,  I  guess.  Brenda  's  coming 
back  to  be  married  in  May,  and  they  're  flying  round  get- 
ting her  things  ready.  All  her  linen  is  being  beautifully 
embroidered.  ..." 

They  went  on  talking,  without  much  thought  of  what 
they  said.  It  was  immaterial,  really,  what  they  said,  or 
even  whether  they  listened  to  each  other,  while  they  had  in 


S74  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

common  the  comfort  of  sitting  together  in  front  of  the  fire 
after  a  long  separation  filled  with  doubts  and  dismays. 
She  told  him  about  the  Convalescents'  Home,  the  sum  they 
had  raised  for  it.  No  word,  prudently,  was  spoken  by 
either  of  her  share  in  raising  it.  He  told  her  about  the 
Russian  novels.  A  third  person  might  perfectly  have  been 
present,  for  anything  intimate  in  their  conversation. 
Gerald  was  scrupulously  careful,  for  his  part,  that  this 
should  be  so.  The  third  person  would  never  have  divined 
how  far  for  the  moment  that  chimney-corner  transcended, 
in  the  sentiments  of  the  parties  seated  before  it,  any  other 
corner  of  the  earth. 

Aurora's  attention  became  closer  when  Gerald  related 
his  interviews  with  De  Breze  and  Costanzi,  both  of  whom 
he  had  succeeded  in  convincing  that  Antonia  had  had  noth- 
ing to  do  with  intriguing  them  at  the  veglione,  and  had 
left  to  digest  as  best  they  could  their  curiosity  concerning 
the  mysterious  masker  mistaken  for  her.  He  had  been 
obliged  to  give  his  word  that  he  knew  on  absolutely  good 
authority  who  this  person  was. 

His  attention,  on  the  other  hand,  was  complete  when  she 
told  him  how  she  had  dealt  with  Ceccherelli ;  she  was  con- 
siderate enough  to-day  to  make  the  effort  to  pronounce  the 
gentleman's  cognomen. 

' '  I  was  savage  at  liim,  you  remember, ' '  she  said.  * '  I  was 
going  to  take  his  head  off.  Then  when  it  came  to  it,  and 
I  had  told  him  what  I  thought  of  him  and  the  whole  dis- 
graceful scrape  he  had  got  me  into —  Oh,  I  went  for  him, 
hammer  and  tongs!  Incidentally,  I  made  him  tell  me 
what  it  was  I  had  said.  Pretty  bad,  wasn't  it! — Well, 
do  you  know,  he  cried,  he  felt  so.  He  just  cried  on  his 
knees,  and  didn't  try  to  get  rid  of  any  of  the  blame.    All 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  275 

he  wanted  was  that  I  should  forgive  him.  And  what 
could  I  do?  As  long,  particularly,  as  I  knew  that  a  good 
deal  of  the  fault  was  my  own.  ...  So  now  he  comes  to  the 
house  with  a  look  as  if  he  *d  just  been  baptized.  And  he 
tells  me  only  stories  fit,  he  says,  for  a  convent.  Here  is  a 
sample,  if  you  'd  like  to  hear.  Mrs.  X,  as  he  called  her, 
who  lives  in  a  palace  not  a  thousand  miles,  he  said,  from 
Piazza  degli  Anti-nory,  and  who  had  given  Mr.  B.  reasons 
for  not  liking  her,  was  seen  by  him,  in  a  suspiciously  sim- 
ple dress,  going  suspiciously  on  foot,  in  a  little  suspiciously 
out  of  the  way  street,  at  a  considerable  distance  from 
Piazza  degli  Anti-nory.  The  gentleman  followed  her 
stealthily  into  a  house  he  saw  her  enter,  thinking,  you 
know,  he  would  find  out  something  to  her  discredit.  And 
what  did  he  find  out  but  that  she  was  secretly  visiting 
and  relieving  the  poor!  The  brilliant  society  lady,  whom 
he  wished  to  be  revenged  on  because,  as  I  gathered,  she  had 
scorned  his  dishonorable  love-making,  was  secretly  the 
angel  of  the  poor.  .  .  .  Don't  you  think  that  's  a  nice 
story  ?  He  tells  me  nothing  now  that  's  less  nice  than  that. 
We  're  reformed  characters.  He  has  asked  my  permission 
to  dedicate  to  me  a  beautiful  piece  of  music  he  has  just 
composed,  and  which  is  called — but  in  French — 'Prayer  of 
the  Evening.'  " 

Both  of  them  were  pleasantly  aware  of  a  tray  placed  on 
the  table  near  them,  as  if  descended  from  heaven,  laden 
with  teapot,  bread  and  butter,  jam.  Neither  of  them 
really  saw  Giovanna,  who  brought  it  in,  or  was  struck  by 
the  stern  expression  of  her  face. 

Aurora,  never  sorry  of  something  to  eat,  turned  her 
attention  to  the  tray.  Gerald  wished  to  serve  her,  and  she 
first  noticed  his  weakness  when  she  saw  the  teapot  tremble 


me  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

slightly  in  his  hand.  She  went  on  chattering,  but  she  was 
observing  him. 

*'Is  your  carriage  waiting  before  the  door?"  he  sud- 
denly asked,  after  a  space  during  which  she  had  suspected 
that  he  was  not  properly  attending  to  what  she  said. 
Aurora's  monogram,  daintily  executed,  adorned  the  door- 
panels  of  her  carriage. 

''Yes,"  she  answered.     ''Why?" 

As  if  he  had  not  heard,  he  changed  the  subject.  After 
a  while  he  asked,  again  irrelevantly : 

"How  was  it  that  Miss  Madison  did  not  come  with  you 
this  afternoon?" 

"She  was  going  to  a  different  tea-party."  Supposing 
that  his  question  was  a  way  of  politely  desiring  news  of 
Miss  Madison,  she  went  on  to  talk  of  her. 

' '  She  was  going  to  her  French  teacher 's,  who  is  having  a 
French  afternoon  where  they  're  supposed  to  talk  nothing 
but  French.  What  would  I  have  been  doing  there?  But 
Estelle  is  getting  to  talk  the  French  language  exactly  as 
well  as  her  own.  .  .  .  That  reminds  me.  A  thing  I  've 
wanted  to  tell  you.  If  you  should  notice  that  Busteretto 
seems  to  be  rather  more  her  dog  than  mine,  don't  you  say 
anything,  or  care.  The  fact  is  Estelle  loves  him  more  than 
I  do.  That  's  all  there  is  about  it.  Which  isn't  saying 
that  I  don't  love  him.  But  Estelle  's  silly  over  him,  in 
the  regular  old  maid  way,  as  I  tell  her.  When  he 
wouldn't  eat  his  dinner  this  noon,  I  had  all  I  could  do  to 
make  her  eat  hers,  she  was  so  troubled.  And  nothing  ailed 
him,  I  guess,  but  that  he  'd  picked  up  something  in  the 
kitchen.  What  I  wanted  to  say  was,  don't  you  think  it  's 
because  I  don't  value  your  present,  if  you  should  notice 
by  and  by  that  I  seem  to  have  given  up  my  claims  to 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  J277 

Busteretto.  That  sort  of  alive  present  has  a  will  of  its 
own.  The  little  thing  took  to  her  from  the  first  more  than 
he  did  to  me.  Shall  I  tell  Estelle  that  you  wished  to  be 
remembered  ? ' ' 

''Pray  do." 

''She  '11  be  sorry  to  hear  you  're  sick.  Don't  say  that 
again,  Gerald, ' '  she  silenced  him,  letting  her  anxiety  at  last 
plainly  appear.  "Don't  tell  me  you  aren't  sick,  for  I 
know  better.  It  's  been  taking  away  my  appetite  to  see 
you  make  believe  to  eat,  and  choke  over  it.  Your  cough 
is  so  tight  it  sounds  as  if  it  tore  your  lungs.  Give  me 
your  hand.  It  's  as  hot,  dear  boy,  and  as  dry !  .  .  .  Wait, 
let  me  feel  your  pulse." 

He  knew  that  his  pulse  was  high,  that  his  temples  ached, 
that  a  disposition  to  shiver  accompanied  the  volcanic  heat 
of  his  blood. 

He  laughed  at  her  light-headedly  while  with  serious  con- 
centration she  counted  the  beats  in  his  wrist. 

"  I  'm  going  to  stop  at  Doctor  Gage 's  on  my  way  home, ' ' 
she  said,  letting  go  his  hand,  and  not  heeding  what  he 
said.     *'And  I  'm  going  to  tell  him  to  come  and  see  you." 

"Please  do  not !  If  I  need  a  doctor,  there  is  my  own,  an 
Italian,  the  same  for  years." 

"An  Italian?     Do  you  think  they  're  as  good?" 

"Better  for  my  own  case." 

"Gerald,  it  's  my  advice  to  you  to  go  right  to  bed  and 
let  your  doctor  come  and  prescribe.  A  cold  is  nothing  in 
a  way,  but  a  neglected  cold  can  grow  into  a  mean  sort  of 
thing.  Say  you  '11  do  it.  Don't  you  know  how  good  it 
will  feel  to  you  just  to  give  in  and  go  to  bed  and  let  some 
one  else  do  all  the  looking  after  you?  Oh,  I  wish  I  could 
speak  Italian  enough  to  have  a  talk  with  your  Giovanna." 


278  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

^'Giovanna  has  taken  care  of  me  and  my  malanni  for 
years.  She  gives  me  tar-water,  and  rice-water,  and  tama- 
rind-water, and  linden-tea,  and  cassia.  She  threatened 
me  this  morning  with  a  sinapism  if  I  were  not  better  by 
evening.     I  shall  be  better.     I  do  not  wish  for  a  sinapism. ' ' 

''Is  that  a  poultice  on  your  chest?  I  guess  it  's  what 
you  need.  Now,  if  I  have  any  influence  with  you,  Gerald, 
if  you  love  me  one  little  bit,  you  '11  promise  to  go  right  to 
bed,  and  you  '11  give  me  your  doctor's  address  so  that  on 
my  way  home  I  can  leave  word  for  him  to  come." 

' '  You  shall  not  take  that  trouble.     I  can  send  Gaetano. ' ' 

*'You  promise  me  you  '11  do  it,  then?" 

*'I  seem  to  have  been  left  no  choice,  dear  lady." 

''That  's  real  sweet  of  you.  You  '11  go  to  bed  the  minute 
IVegone?" 

"Yes.    But  don't  go  quite  yet!" 

"With  that  temperature,  I  don't  see  how  you  can  care 
who  stays  or  who  goes,  or  anything  in  the  world  but  to  lay 
your  head  down  on  a  pillow.  I  won't  stay  any  longer  now. 
Go  to  bed  like  a  good  boy.  To-morrow  I  '11  run  in  and  see 
how  you  're  getting  along." 

His  last  word  was,  after  a  moment  of  seeming  embarrass- 
ment : 

' '  I  hope  Miss  Madison  will  be  able  to  come  with  you  next 
time." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Aurora,  lightly,  taking  it  for  a  mere 
amiable  message  with  which  he  was  charging  her  for 
Estelle. 

Fever  no  doubt  colored  all  Gerald's  dreams  that  night, 
and  was  in  part  responsible  next  day  for  his  thoughts,  as 
he   passed   from   languor   to   restlessness,   and   from  im- 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  279 

patience  back  to  the  peace  of  the  certain  knowledge  that 
before  evening  he  should  have  visitors — fair  visitors. 

When  it  seemed  to  him  nearly  time  for  them,  he  ordered 
Giovanna  to  make  the  room  of  a  beautiful  and  perfect  neat- 
ness, hiding  all  the  medicine  bottles  and  humble  signs  that 
one  is  mortal.  She  was  directed  to  lay  across  his  white 
counterpane  that  square  of  brocade  which  often  formed  a 
background  for  his  portraits.  She  was  asked  to  brush  his 
hair  and  beard,  and  w^ap  his  shoulders  in  an  ivory-white 
shawl,  thick  with  silk  embroideries,  which  had  been  his 
mother's.  In  a  little  green  bronze  tripod  a  black  pastille 
was  set  burning,  which  sent  up,  slow,  thin,  and  wavering, 
a  gray  spiral  of  perfume. 

Keenly  as  he  was  waiting,  he  yet  did  not  know  when  the 
ladies  arrived.  He  opened  his  eyes,  and  they  were  there, 
shedding  around  them  a  beautiful  freshness  of  health  and 
the  world  outside.  Estelle,  in  a  soft  green  velvet  edged 
with  silver  fur,  held  toward  him  an  immense  bunch  of 
flowers.  Aurora,  in  a  wine-colored  cloth  bordered  with 
bands  of  black  fox,  tendered  a  basket  heaped  with  fruit. 
Both  smiled,  and  had  the  kind  look  of  angels. 

They  sat  down  beside  his  bed.  They  talked  with  him ;  all 
was  just  as  usual.  They  asked  the  old  questions  pertinent 
to  the  case,  he  made  the  old  answers,  and  by  an  effort  kept 
up  for  some  minutes  a  drawing-room  conversation  with 
them. 

Then  Aurora  said: 

"Hush!  You  mustn't  talk  any  more!"  And  when  he 
thought  she  was  going  aw^ay,  he  wondered  to  see  her  take 
off  her  gloves. 

She  stood  over  him ;  he  wondered  what  she  meant  to  do. 
She  felt  of  his  forehead  with  her  cool  hand.     With  her 


280  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

palms,  which  were  like  her  voice,  of  a  velvet  not  too  soft, 
she  smoothed  his  forehead  and  temples;  she  stroked  them 
over  and  over  in  a  way  that  seemed  to  draw  the  ache  out 
of  his  brain.  Her  fingers  moved  soothingly,  magnetically, 
all  around  his  eye-sockets,  pressing  down  the  eyelids  and 
comforting  them. 

At  first  he  resisted.  Perversely  he  frowned,  as  if  the 
thing  increased  his  pain,  annoyed  him  beyond  words.  He 
all  but  cried  out  to  the  well-meaning  hands  to  stop. 

' '  Does  n  't  it  feel  good  ? ' '  asked  Aurora,  anxiously. 

He  relaxed.  Without  opening  his  eyes,  he  nodded  to 
thank  her,  and  as  he  yielded  himself  up  to  the  hands  it 
seemed  to  him  that  those  passes  drew  his  spirit  after  them 
quite  out  of  his  body. 

*'l  don't  think  I  '11  go  up  with  you,"  Estelle  said  unex- 
pectedly when  on  the  next  day  they  stopped  before  the 
narrow  yellow  door  in  Borgo  Pinti.  *'I  '11  wait  here  in  the 
carriage.  I  'm  nervous  myself  to-day.  Give  my  best  re- 
gards to  Gerald.     I  hope  you  '11  find  him  better." 

Aurora  did  not  take  time  to  examine  into  the  possible 
reasons  for  her  friend 's  choice.  She  climbed  the  long  stairs 
sturdily,  managing  her  breath  so  that  she  did  not  have  to 
stop  and  rest  on  the  way. 

She  followed  the  stern  Giovanna,  unsubdued  by  the  lat- 
ter's  hard  and  jealous  looks,  to  the  door  of  her  master's 
chamber. 

She  went  toward  the  bed,  smiling  at  the  sick  man  over 
an  armful  of  white  lilacs. 

He  half  rose  in  his  bed  and  quickly,  disconnectedly,  im- 
petuously, said : 

"My  dear  friend,  this  is  most  good  of  you.     I  'm  sure  I 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  281 

thank  you  very  much.  I  'm  very,  very  much  better,  as  you 
can  see.  I  shall  be  out  again  in  a  day  or  two."  He  was 
visibly  trembling;  his  eyes  flared  with  excitement.  "That 
being  the  case,  my  dear  lady,  I  earnestly  beg  you  will  not 
trouble  to  come  like  this  every  day."  He  stopped  to  choke 
and  cough,  then  wrenching  himself  free  from  strangula- 
tion— *'x\urora," — he  changed  his  key  and  tune, — "do  let 
me  be  ill  in  peace !  Here  I  am  on  my  back,  with  a  loosened 
grip  on  everything,  and  it  's  taking  an  unfair  advantage  to 
invade  my  privacy  as  you  do.  Take  away  those  lilacs  with 
you,  won't  you,  please?  We  haven't  any  more  vases  to 
put  them  in ;  they  'd  have  to  be  stuck  in  a  bedroom  water- 
jug.  Giovanna  won't  let  me  have  flowers  in  my  room,  any- 
how; she  says  they  are  bad  for  me.  Don't  be  offended!  I 
know  you  mean  nothing  but  to  be  kind,  but  the  thing  you 
are  doing  is  devilish.  .  .  .  What  do  you  think  I  am  made 
of?  I  don't  want  you  to  be  offended,  but  I  have  got  to  say 
what  I  can  to  keep  you  from  coming  to  this  house  and 
troubling  me  in  my  illness.  I  have  got  to  say  it  plainly 
and  fully  because  you,  Aurora,  never  understand  anything 
that  is  not  said  to  you  in  so  many  words.  I  might  try  and 
try  my  best  to  convey  the  same  idea  to  you  in  a  gentle  and 
gentlemanly  way,  and  not  a  scrap  of  good  wouid  be  done. 
I  've  got  to  talk  like  a  beast.  I  wish  to  be  alone.  Is  that 
clear?  I  've  just  struggled  and  waded  my  way  out  of  one 
quagmire ;  I  do  not  wish  to  enter  another.  Is  that  plain  ? 
I  wish  to  feel  free  to  be  ill  as  much  and  as  long  as  I  choose. 
It  concerns  nobody.  It  concerns  nobody  if  I  die.  It  would 
be  an  excellent  thing,  saving  me  the  trouble  later  of  blow- 
ing out  my  brains.  .  .  .  My  God,  Aurora,  have  you  under- 
stood?" he  almost  shouted. 

**Yes,"  said  Aurora  in  a  voice  that  sounded  pale,  even  as 


282  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  , 

'I 

her  face  looked  pale.     ''I  have  understood,  and  I  won't  ' 

come  again.     Just  one  thing,  Gerald.     Put  your  arms  un-  i 

der  the  bed  clothes  and  keep  them  there. ' '  i 

*' Whether  he's  better  or  worse  I  truly  couldn't  tell 
you,"  Aurora  said  in  answer  to  Estelle's  first  question.  ! 

After  a  moment  she  added,  ''I  can't  make  him  out."  ' 

Estelle  saw  that  she  was  deeply  troubled,  and,  herself  j 

troubled  at  the  sight,  did  not  press  her  for  explanations. 

During  the  drive  home  Aurora  made  only  one  other  re-  | 

mark.     It  was  delivered  with  a  certain  emphasis.  I 

^'One  thing   I   know:   Isha'n't   go   there   again   in   a 
hurry ! "  ' 

Her  lilacs,  after  wondering  a  moment  what  to  do  with 
them,  she  had  quietly  deposited  outside  Gerald's  entrance-  j 

door. 

It  was  unimaginable,   of  course,  that  the  childhood's 
friend  should  so  disregard  the  rules  of  the  game  as  to  leave 
her  old  playmate's  curiosity  long  unsatisfied.     Estelle  ac- 
cordingly learned  before   evening  that   Gerald  had  been  i 
guilty  of  an  attack  of  nerves,  in  the  course  of  which  he  had  ' 
said  something  which  Aurora  did  not  like.     What  this  was 
Aurora  would  not  tell,  saying  it  seemed  unfair  to  repeat 
things  Gerald  had  spoken  while  he  was  not  himself  and 
which   he   perhaps   did   not   mean.     From   which   Estelle  i 
judged  that  Aurora  had  already  softened  since  she  re-          ; 
turned  to  the  carriage  looking  as  grim  as  she  was  grieved.  \ 

That  Aurora  had  something  on  her  mind  no  observant  \ 

person  could  fail  to  see,  and  Estelle  was  not  unprepared  to 
hear  her  say  as  she  did  on  the  third  morning  at  breakfast,  ' 

after  fidgeting  a  moment  with  a  pinch  of  bread:  \ 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  283 

'*I  'm  so  uneasy  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  That  boy  is 
much  sicker  than  he  knows,"  she  went  on  to  justify  her  dis- 
quietude, ^'and  he  's  in  a  bad  mood  for  getting  well.  I 
don't  believe  Italian  doctors  know  much,  anyhow.  I  've 
heard  that  they  still  put  leeches  on  you.  All  he  has  to  take 
care  of  him,  day  and  night,  is  that  old  servant-woman 
What  's-her-name,  who,  he  told  me  himself,  doctors  him 
with  herb-tea.  I  'm  so  uneasy !  The  sort  of  cold  he  has,  I 
tell  you,  can  turn  any  minute  into  something  you  don't 
want.  He  's  all  run  down  and  a  bad  subject  for  pneu- 
monia. I  'm  thinking  I  shall  have  to  just  go  to  the  door 
and  find  out  how  he  is." 

''You  could  send  a  servant  to  inquire,"  suggested 
Estelle. 

Aurora  appeared  to  reflect;  she  might  have  been  trying 
to  find  a  reason  for  not  taking  the  hint,  but  she  said,  ''No; 
I  should  feel  better  satisfied  to  go  myself. ' ' 

At  the  last  moment,  when  they  were  ready  to  start, 
Estelle  found  Busteretto's  nose  hot,  and  decided  not  to  go. 
She  stayed  at  home  and  called  a  doctor.  For  some  days 
the  pet  had  not  seemed  to  her  in  quite  his  usual  form. 

Aurora,  climbing  Gerald's  stairs  this  time,  felt  very 
uncertain  and  rather  small.  The  street  door,  when  she  had 
pulled  the  bell-handle,  had  unlatched  with  a  click,  but  no 
voice  had  called  down,  and  when  she  reached  the  top  land- 
ing the  door  in  front  of  her  stood  forbiddingly  closed.  She 
waited  for  some  minutes,  wondering  whether  she  were  do- 
ing right.  Suppose  Gerald  were  enough  better  to  be  up 
again  and,  Giovanna  being  out,  should  himself  come  to 
open  the  door.  How  would  she  feel,  caught  slinking  back, 
after  she  had  been  requested  loudly  and  roundly  to  stay 
away? 


S84  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

Well,  set  aside  how  she  felt,  the  object  of  her  coming 
would  have  been  reached,  wouldn't  it?  She  would  know 
that  he  was  better.     She  rang  and  listened. 

Certain,  as  soon  as  she  heard  them,  whose  footsteps  were 
on  the  other  side  of  the  door,  she  held  in  readiness  her 
Italian.  She  counted  on  understanding  Giovanna's  an- 
swer to  her  question,  for  she  had,  as  she  boasted,  ''quite 
a  vocabulary. '  ^  But  much  more  than  to  this  she  trusted  to 
the  talent  which  Italians  have  for  making  their  meaning 
clear  through  pantomime  and  facial  expression. 

As  soon,  in  fact,  as  Giovanna  opened  the  door,  and  before 
the  woman  had  said  a  word  in  reply  to  ''Come  sta  Signor 
Fanef"  Aurora  had  understood. 

Giovanna 's  eyes,  stained  with  recent  weeping,  looked  up 
at  the  visitor  without  severity  or  aversion,  seeking  for  sym- 
pathy; the  unintelligible  account  she  gave  of  her  master's 
condition  was  broken  up  with  sighs. 

Aurora  felt  her  heart  turn  cold,  and  such  agitation  seize 
her  as  made  her  reckless  of  all  but  one  thing. 

' '  I  shall  have  to  see  for  myself, ' '  she  thought. 

With  the  haste  of  fear,  she  flew  before  Giovanna  down 
the  long  hallway,  around  the  dark  corner,  to  the  door  of 
Gerald's  room.  It  was  half  open.  Checking  herself  on 
the  threshold,  she  thrust  in  her  head. 

He  was  so  lying  in  his  bed  that  beyond  the  outlined  shape 
under  the  covers  she  could  see  of  him  only  a  dark  spot  of 
hair.  And  she  felt  she  must  see  his  face,  whether  asleep 
or  awake,  to  get  some  idea.  .  .  .  She  tiptoed  in  with  the 
least  possible  noise.  At  once,  without  turning,  he  asked 
something  in  Italian,  and  speaking  forced  him  to  cough; 
and  after  he  had  finished  coughing,  Aurora,  who  was  near, 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  285 

could  hear  his  breathing  rustle  within  him  like  wind  among 
dead  leaves. 

Giovanna  had  gone  to  the  head  of  his  bed  and  whispered 
a  communication.  Upon  which  he  twisted  sharply  around, 
and  Aurora,  moved  by  an  overpowering  impulse,  rushed,  to 
his  side. 

"Hush!"  she  said  at  once.  ''Don't  try  to  talk;  it  makes 
you  cough.  I  just  wanted  to  know  how  you  were.  It 
would  be  funny,  now  don't  you  think  so  yourself,  if,  such 
friends  as  we  've  been,  I  should  stop  caring  anything  about 
you  because  you  were  cross  the  other  day?  I  had  to  come 
and  see  if  there  was  n't  something  we  could  do  for  you." 

The  attempt  to  speak  choked  him  again;  he  had  to  lift 
himself  finally  quite  up  from  his  pillow  to  get  breath. 
Quicker  than  Giovanna,  Aurora  snatched  up  a  gray  shawl 
from  a  chair  to  put  over  his  shoulders.  The  room  felt  to 
her  stagnantly  cold.  He  stopped  her  hand  in  the  act  of 
folding  him  in,  and  she  knew  that  it  was  not  the  Gerald 
of  last  time,  this  one  who,  with  an  afflictive  little  moan, 
clasped  and  pressed  her  hand. 

She  hushed  him,  every  time  he  tried  to  speak,  until  his 
breathing  had  quieted  down,  when  he  came  out  despite  her 
forbidding  with  a  ragged,  interrupted,  but  obstinate  eager- 
ness: 

''How  can  I  ever  thank  you  enough  for  coming,  dear, 
dear  Aurora?  I  have  lived  in  one  prolonged  nightmare 
ever  since  I  saw  you,  knowing  I  had  behaved  like  a  black- 
guard, and  fearing  I  should  never  have  a  chance  to  beg 
your  pardon.  I  thought  I  should  never  see  you  again. 
And  here  you  are,  so  generous,  so  kind ! ' ' 

"Hush,     Gerald!     Don't    make    anything    of    it.    Of 


2S6  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

course  I  came.     Keep  quiet  now;  you  must  n't  try  to  talk.'' 

''Dearest  woman,"  he  insisted,  with  his  voice  full  of 
tears,  "I  don't  even  know  what  I  said  to  you,  hut  I  know 
that  the  whole  thing  was  atrocious.  You  standing  there 
like  a  big  angel,  with  your  innocent  arms  full  of  flowers, 
and  I  barking  at  you  like  a  cur!" 

"Nothing  of  the  sort.  You  were  sick.  Who  lays  up 
anything  against  a  sick  man?" 

' '  Excuse  it  in  me  like  this,  Aurora,  if  you  can :  that  hav- 
ing such  regard  for  you,  I  had  pride  before  you  and  could 
not  endure  that  you  should  see  me  when  I  felt  myself  to 
be  a  disgusting  object.  So,  mortified  to  the  point  of  tor- 
ture, I  lost  my  temper, — I  've  got  that  bad  habit,  you  know, 
— and  insanely  railed  to  keep  you  off. ' ' 

"And  didn't  succeed.  Come,  come;  what  nonsense  all 
this  is !  Put  it  out  of  your  mind  and  think  of  nothing  but 
getting  well.     Now  you — " 

"It  is  not  nearly  so  important  that  I  should  get  well," 
he  testily  persisted,  "as  that  I  should  ask  your  forgiveness. 
It  has  been  weighing  upon  me  and  burning  like  bedclothes 
of  hot  iron,  the  horror  of  having  so  meanly  and  ungrate- 
fully offended  you." 

"Why  should  you  feel  so  bad  about  it  as  long  as  I  don't? 
Put  it  all  out  of  your  mind,  just  as  I  do  out  of  mine. 
There,  it  's  all  right.  Now  keep  still  except  to  answer  my 
questions.     You  've  had  the  doctor?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"What  's  he  giving  you?" 

"You  can  see — there  on  the  stand — those  bottles." 

"And  hot  things  on  your  chest?" 

"Yes;  semedilino.  I  don't  know  what  you  call  it  in 
English." 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  287 

*' Flaxseed,  I  guess.  How  can  poor  old  Giovanna  do 
everything  for  you  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered  vaguely.     ''She  does." 

Perceiving  that  by  a  reaction  from  his  excitement  he  was 
suddenly  fatigued  to  the  point  of  no  longer  being  able  to 
speak  at  all  or  even  keep  his  eyes  open,  she  asked  nothing 
more,  but  with  a  practised  hand  straightened  his  bolster, 
smoothed  his  pillow  and  drew  the  covers  evenly  and  snugly 
up  to  his  chin. 

"Don^t  you  be  afraid,"  he  heard  her  say  above  him,  as 
it  seemed  to  him  a  long  time  after,  at  the  same  moment  that 
he  felt  her  give  his  shoulder  a  little  squeeze  to  impress  her 
saying:     "I  won't  let  anything  happen  to  you." 

He  entered  a  state  which  was  neither  quite  sleep  nor 
quite  waking.  He  was  not  dreaming,  yet  the  world  within 
his  eyelids  was  peopled  with  creatures  and  varied  by  inci- 
dents departing  from  the  known  and  foreseen.  Something 
malevolent  pertained  to  the  personalities,  something  dis- 
quieting to  the  actions;  suffering  and  oppression  resulted 
from  his  inability  to  get  away  from  them.  They  came 
and  went,  one  scene  melted  into  another,  sometimes 
beautiful,  sometimes  repulsive,  a  sickly  disagreeableness 
being  common  to  all,  and  the  fatigue  involved  with 
watching  the  spectacle  of  them  weighing  like  a  physical 
burden. 

But  yet  beneatl^  the  unrest  of  fever  dreams  there  was  in 
Gerald,  after  Aurora's  visit,  as  if  a  substratum  of  quiet  and 
content.  As  a  good  Catholic,  having  confessed  and  re- 
ceived absolution,  would  be  less  troubled  b}^  either  his 
symptoms  or  any  visions  that  might  come  of  Satan  and  his 
imps,  so  Gerald,  with  the  weight  of  his  sins  of  brutality  and 


288  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

ingratitude  lifted  off  him,  could  feel  almost  passive  with 
regard  to  the  rest. 

He  had  moments  through  the  night  of  recognizing  the 
deceptiveness  of  his  senses.  He  knew,  for  instance,  that 
the  solemn  clerical  gentleman  in  a  long  black  coat  and  tall 
hat  whom  he  saw  most  tiresomely  coming  toward  him  down 
the  street  every  time  he  opened  his  eyes  was  only  a  med- 
icine bottle  full  of  dark  fluid,  outlined  against  the  dim 
candle-shine.  And  he  knew  that  the  tower  of  ice,  solitary 
amid  snows,  lighthouse  or  tower  of  defense  on  some  arctic 
coast,  was  nothing  but  a  glass  of  water.  And  when  it 
seemed  to  him,  late,  late  in  the  night,  that  Aurora  was  in 
the  room,  he  knew  off  and  on  that  it  was  Giovanna,  who 
through  one  of  those  metamorphoses  common  in  fever  had 
taken  the  likeness  of  Aurora.  She  lifted  him  to  make  him 
drink,  and  supported  him  while  she  held  the  glass  to  his 
lips,  then  laid  him  easily  back.  The  delusions  of  fever 
had  the  sweet  and  foolish  impossibility  of  fairy-stories: 
Aurora,  as  if  it  were  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world, 
placing  upon  his  stiff  and  lacerated  breast  balsamic  ban- 
dages of  assuaging  and  beneficient  warmth!  .  .  . 

The  night  was  full  of  torrid  heat  and  fiery  light,  in  which 
everything  looked  unnatural,  shifting,  uncertain,  but  day- 
light, when  it  finally  came,  was  of  a  crude  coldness ;  under 
it  everything  returned  to  be  itself,  meager  and  stationary, 
and  he  knew  that  it  was  no  phantasmagorical  Aurora  mak- 
ing preparations  to  wash  his  face. 

He  spoke  no  word  to  signify  either  pleasure  or  dis- 
pleasure. He  let  it  be,  like  a  destiny  too  strong  to  with- 
stand. With  this  acceptance  there  took  place  in  him,  body 
and  spirit,  a  relaxing,  as  when  supporting  arms  are  felt  by 
one  who  had  been  fearing  a  fall 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  289 

In  his  not  very  clear-headed  reflections  upon  himself  and 
his  state,  he  had  passed  into  a  diff:erent  category  of  men, 
where  what  he  did,  particularly  as  regarded  worldly  pro- 
prieties, had  little  importance,  because,  ill  as  he  felt,  there 
seemed  to  him  such  a  strong  probability  of  his  actions  hav- 
ing no  result.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  could  manage  to 
pull  through — and  he  found  he  cared  to  do  this,  cared  so 
much  more  than  he  had  supposed  he  ever  could  care,  on 
such  desperate  days  as  those  which  had  sometimes  seen  him 
re-examining  his  revolver — if  he  should  recover,  the  glad- 
ness of  his  good  fortune  would  outweigh  any  inconvenience 
created  by  his  weakness  now.  Life  is,  and  should  be, 
dearer  to  man  than  anything  else,  except  honor.  He  found 
it  difficult  to  separate  the  idea  of  honor  from  life,  and  make 
it  oppose  letting  this  robust  guardian  angel  fulfil  her 
promise  not  to  "let  anything  happen  to  him.'' 

Gerald  had  too  often  heard  those  well-meaning  lies  which 
friends  and  nurses  tell  the  sick,  to  place  faith  altogether  in 
Aurora's  cheerful  asseverations  from  day  to  day  that  he 
was  getting  better. 

Yet  Aurora  was  not  feigning.  She  entertained  no  doubt 
that  with  proper  care  he  would  get  well.  And  she  was 
providing  the  care.  Hence  a  confidence  which  she  did 
not  allow  any  of  those  chilly  creepy  fears  which  come  at 
about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  to  undermine.  She 
was  so  strongly  resolved  to  get  him  well,  and  felt  so  ca- 
pable of  doing  it,  that  it  would  not  seem  unlikely 
her  very  hands  in  touching  him  had  virtue  and  imparted 
health. 

He  said  very  little,  even  when  the  exertion  of  talking  had 
ceased  to  make  him  cough.     The  fact  that  talk  fatigued 


290  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

him  was  reinforced  by  his  old  fancy  that  talk  was  superflu- 
ous.    One  lived,  one  looked,  one  felt.  .  .  . 

She  was  glad  he  so  willingly  kept  quiet,  because  as  long 
as  he  had  fever  it  was  so  much  the  best  thing  he  could  do. 
He  did  not  have  to  tell  her  that  he  took  comfort  in  having 
her  there,  that  everything  she  did  for  him  was  exactly 
right,  that  her  touch  was  blessed  and  had  no  more  strange- 
ness for  him  than  that  of  a  sister — nay,  than  his  own.  She 
too  understood  those  wordless  things  which  are  shed  from 
one  person,  like  a  radiance,  and  inhaled  by  another,  like  a 
scent. 

In  the  long  silences,  she  sometimes  read  a  little  by  the 
shaded  candle — she  had  chosen  the  night  watch  for  her 
share  and  let  his  devoted  old  Giovanna  wait  on  her  master 
during  the  day.  But  very  often  she  sat  in  her  easy-chair 
near  the  bed  doing  nothing,  just  thinking  her  thoughts, 
marveling  at  the  queerness,  the  surprises  of  life.  "Who 
could  have  dreamed  that  first  time  she  entered  this  big 
brick-floored,  white-washed  room,  and  nearly  cried  because 
she  found  it  so  dreary,  that  she  would  come  to  feel  at  home 
in  it ;  that  by  her  doing  the  brown  earthenware  stove  in  the 
corner,  cold  since  Mrs.  Fane's  day,  would  again  glow  and 
purr ;  that  over  and  over  she  would  watch  the  row  of  flower- 
pots out  on  the  terrace,  with  the  stiff  straw-colored  remains 
in  them  of  last  year 's  carnations,  grow  slowly  visible  in  the 
dawn ;  that  from  their  pastel  portrait  the  eyes  of  the  mother 
would  watch  her  placing  compresses  on  the  brow  of  the  son ! 

Before  going  for  her  rest,  she  always  waited  to  see  the 
doctor,  who  made  an  early  visit.  After  they  had  reissued 
together  from  the  sick-room,  he  was  interviewed  by  her 
with  the  help  of  an  interpreter,  Clotilde,  who  was  in  and 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  291 

out  of  the  house  during  all  that  period,  making  herself  use- 
ful. Estelle  instead  came  only  for  a  moment  daily,  having 
a  ease  of  her  own  to  nurse,  who  was  down,  poor  crumb, 
with  those  measles-mumps-whooping  cough  of  puppyhood, 
distemper. 

On  the  day  when  Doctor  Batoni  had  agreed  that  with 
prudence  there  would  be  nothing  more  to  fear,  the  patient 
might  be  regarded  as  having  entered  convalescence,  Au- 
rora covered  him  with  a  wide  and  warming  smile. 

'^Je  suis  son  bonne  amie/*  thus  she  translated  the  ex- 
planation of  her  unconcealed  happiness, ' '  I  'ma  good  friend 
of  his,"  nodding  at  the  old  man  with  the  full  sweetness  of 
her  dimples;  blushing  a  little,  too,  with  the  pride  of  ad- 
dressing him  directly  in  French. 

That  morning  Aurora  was  so  happy  she  could  not  hurry ; 
humming  an  old  psalm  tune  she  dawdled  about  her  room, 
the  longer  to  enjoy  her  thoughts. 

When  she  finally  slept  it  was  more  deeply  than  usual, 
and  she  woke  with  a  start  of  fear  that  it  was  past  the  time. 
The  line  of  sky  showing  between  the  curtains  retained 
no  remembrance  of  the  day.  It  must  be  late,  certainly. 
Then  she  heard  a  faint  stirring  just  outside  her  door,  the 
thing  probably  which  had  drawn  her  out  of  a  sound  sleep. 
It  was  the  rustle  of  some  person  listening  at  the  crack. 

She  bounced  from  bed  and  went  to  open.  It  was  as  she 
expected,  Giovanna ;  come,  she  supposed,  to  see  if  she  were 
ready  to  go  on  duty.  At  Giovanna 's  first  words,  though 
she  did  not  entirely  understand  them,  she  became  uneasy, 
because  Giovanna  interspersed  them  with  sighs.  Her 
voice  sounded  as  if  she  might  have  been  crying. 

Aurora  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  fact  that  those  hard 
old  eyes  of  Giovanna 's  took  easily  to  tears,  and  that  she 


292  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

sighed  by  the  thousand  the  moment  she  was  in  anxiety  over 
her  signorino.  She  knew  she  must  not  take  Giovanna's 
fears  at  her  own  valuation.  She  gathered  from  her 
gestures  now,  combined  with  her  talk,  that  Gerald,  so  quiet 
until  to-day,  had  become  restless.  Giovanna  impersonated 
him  tossing  and  throwing  his  arms  out  of  the  bed-covers. 
Aurora,  though  not  permitting  herself  to  be  alarmed,  hur- 
ried with  her  dressing. 

''Ain't  it  always  so,"  she  questioned  her  own  image  in 
the  glass,  "that  the  moment  you  feel  safe  something  goes 
wrong  ? ' ' 

When  she  tiptoed  into  the  big  dim  room  where  Gerald 
lay,  she  could  not  at  first  make  out  what  it  was  that  had 
troubled  Giovanna  to  the  point  of  tears.  He  seemed  quiet 
enough.  After  she  had  taken  his  pulse  and  temperature, 
her  heart  subsided  with  a  blessed  relief. 

He  could  not  tell  her,  because  he  did  not  himself  know, 
that  just  because  he  was  better  he,  paradoxically,  was 
worse.  Thoughts  and  responsibilities  had  begun  to  trouble 
him  again. 

"Should  you  mind  very  much,''  he  asked  suddenly,  "if 
I  worked  off  my  nervousness  by  singing?  I  have  kept 
still,  so  as  not  to  worry  you,  exactly  as  long  as  I  can." 

"Certainly,"  she  said,  "go  ahead.  I  never  knew  you 
were  a  singer.     What  are  you  going  to  sing  ? ' ' 

She  waited  with  a  certain  curiosity. 

He  began  chanting.  "B,  a,  ba;  B,  e,  be — babe!  B,  i, 
bi — babebi !  B,  o,  bo — babebibo !  B,  u,  bu — babebibolbu  ! ' ' 
Then  he  went  on  to  the  letter  C,  "  C,  a,  ca !  C,  e,  ce — cace ! 
C,  i,  ci — caceci!"  and  to  D,  and  so  on,  one  after  the  other, 
through  all  the  consonants  in  the  alphabet. 

"The   queerest    rigmarole   you    ever   heard!"    Aurora 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  293 

called  that  simple  Italian  spelling-exercise  for  little  begin- 
ners. It  might  have  been  funny  to  hear  him,  only  it  was 
disquieting,  he  did  it  so  earnestly  and  so  obstinately  kept 
it  up. 

When  he  had  finished,  Aurora  held  a  sedative  powder  all 
nicely  wrapped  in  a  wet  wafer  ready  for  him.  He  knew 
what  it  was  and  gratefully  gulped  it,  composing  himself 
after  it  to  wait  in  patience  and  self-control  for  its  opera- 
tion. Aurora,  reposing  on  the  magic  of  drugs  like  a  witch 
on  the  power  of  incantations,  watched  for  the  drooping  of 
his  eyelids  and  relaxing  of  his  frown. 

He  had  lain  still  for  so  long  that  she  was  congratulating 
herself  upon  the  result  thus  easily  obtained,  when  he  opened 
his  eyes,  twice  as  wide-awake  as  before,  and  began  to  talk, 
as  if  really  the  object  of  an  opiate  were  not  to  stupefy  a 
man,  but  to  rouse  him  fully.  Under  its  influence  he  was 
almost  garrulous.  His  vivacity  partook  of  delirium.  All 
that  passed  through  his  mind  pressed  forward  indiscrimi- 
nately into  utterance,  as  if  the  sentinels  placed  on  guard 
over  his  thoughts  had  been  taking  an  hour  off. 

Aurora  heard  him  in  wonder  and  perplexity.  He  was 
not  incoherent,  he  was  not  extravagant.  He  was  merely 
talkative,  expansive,  and  this  in  his  case  was  obviously 
pathological.  She  wondered  also  to  see  how  handsome  he 
could  look,  with  his  eyes  alight;  his  cheek-bones  burning, 
pink  as  paint;  his  hair,  grown  long,  lying  in  dark  locks 
over  a  luminous  forehead. 

She  tried  to  think  of  something  that  would  abate  all 
this.  She  was  searching  her  nurse's  memory  for  some 
further  sedative  by  which  to  counteract  a  first  one  gone 
wrong,  when  the  thread  of  her  medical  meditation  snapped, 
her    attention    fastened   upon   what    Gerald   was   saying. 


294f  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

Because  she  had  a  suspicion  that  it  was  about  Violet  he 
was  talking.  And  she  had  from  the  first  been  curious 
about  Violet  and  his  feelings  with  regard  to  her.  As 
curious  as  if  she  had  been  jealous. 

''There  is  a  person — "  he  said,  in  the  suppressed  voice 
of  one  communicating  a  secret,  ' '  of  whom  I  used  to  dream 
very  often.  Not  because  I  wished  to.  In  the  days  when  I 
wished  to,  she  came  seldom.  But  when  I  dreaded  it,  she 
began  to  come,  and  do  what  I  would,  oppose  to  her  what 
hardness  I  could,  she  could  be  so  sinisterly  dreadful  and 
unkind  that  it  was  like  a  knife  in  me.  Try  to  shut  her 
out  as  I  might,  she  would  force  her  way  in  and  make  me 
suffer.  Why?  Why  did  she  want  to?  ...  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  believe.  Some  women  feel  their  beauty  to  depend 
upon  their  power  to  create  suffering.  If  not  happy  suf- 
fering, then  the  other  kind.  If  men  grow  indifferent  to 
it,  they  feel  their  beauty  passing,  and  if  it  goes  there  is 
nothing  left  that  they  care  for.  The  unremitting  quest  of 
their  lives  therefore  is  to  feed  the  blood  of  men  to  their 
beauty,  and  if  they  can  not  do  it  in  any  other  manner 
they  pick  the  locks  of  sleep  and  get  at  them  in  that  way. 
But  the  last  time  this  person  came,  a  surprise  awaited  her. 
And  the  same,  I  will  confess,  awaited  me.  My  heart  was 
like  so  much  saw-dust,  so  far  as  one  drop  of  blood  that 
she  could  wring  from  it.  And  now  she  won't  come  again, 
I  believe,  for  why  should  she  come  ?  She  will  look  a  little 
anxiously  in  the  glass,  very  likely,  to  see  if  she  has  begun 
to  fade.  I  should  be  sorry  to  know  that  the  least  of  her 
golden  hairs  had  faded — they  were  so  lovely.  It  's  wrong 
all  the  same  to  practise  sorcery.  You  don't,  Aurora,  that 
is  one  reason  why  I  like  to  be  with  you.  Women  as  God 
made  them  are  strong  enough^  He  knows !    It  's  unfair  to 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  295 

use  sorcery  besides,  to  make  themselves  beautiful  to  the 
point  of  distraction,  and  desired  to  the  point  of  pain. 
And  then  their  barbarous  methods!  That  low  game  of 
using  a  man 's  weakness  for  the  increase  of  their  own  glory, 
making  a  jealous  fool  wilfully  out  of  a  decent  fellow,  and 
a  baby  out  of  a  self-respecting  man.  You,  Aurora,  you 
are  good  as  good  bread,  you  are  restful  as  a  bank  of  moss. 
You  would  never  do  what  the  others  do.  Would  you, 
Aurora  ?     You  need  n  't  answer  me.     I  know. ' ' 

* '  If  what  you  mean  is  that  I  'm  not  much  of  a  co-quette, ' ' 
she  came  in  quickly,  to  prevent  his  continuing,  ''I  guess 
you  're  right.  Take  it  since  I  was  born,  I  Ve  been  called 
a  good  many  things,  but  in  all  my  life  I  don't  remember 
anybody  calling  me  that, — a  co-quette.  But  you  're  talking 
lots  more  than  is  good  for  you,  brother.  Now  I  want  you 
to  quiet  down  and  give  those  sleepy-drops  a  chance  to  work. 
Here  I  've  fixed  you  something  else  that  will  help  them. 
It  's  just  a  drink  with  nothing  in  it  but  something  nice  and 
cooling.  Smells  pleasant,  does  n  't  it  ?  This  '11  do  the 
trick." 

Slipping  an  arm  under  his  neck,  she  lifted  him,  propped 
him  against  herself,  and  held  the  glass  to  his  mouth.  In- 
stead of  words  pouring  out,  the  calming  draught  flowed  in. 
It  was  a  slow  process;  he  drank  by  small  swallows  and 
wished  after  each  one  to  stop,  but  she  gently  forced  him 
to  go  on.  When  it  was  finished  and  he  turned  his  head 
away  from  the  glass,  he  found  it  resting  on  her  shoulder. 
He  settled  his  cheek  warmly  against  it,  like  a  child  burjdng 
his  face  in  the  pillow.     With  a  long  sigh  he  relaxed. 

**Now,  Aurora,"  he  said  solemnly,  *'be  per — feet — ly 
still." 

He  was  very  still,  too.     After  a  long  moment  he  half 


296  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

lifted  his  head  and  with  a  long  soft  sigh  replaced  it,  as  if 
to  renew  his  sense  of  a  resting-place  so  sweet.  With  all 
her  heart  Aurora  lent  herself  to  this,  glad  to  witness,  as 
she  thought,  the  belated  effect  of  the  soporific.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  would  be  asleep. 

''Aurora,"  he  suddenly  said,  wakeful  as  earlier,  but 
without  moving  his  heavy  head  or  opening  his  eyes,  "do 
you  remember  the  first  evening  I  ever  saw  you  ?  You  came 
down  the  middle  of  the  room  all  by  yourself,  like  something 
in  the  theater,  where  the  stage  has  been  cleared  for  the 
principal  character  to  make  an  effect.  You  were  a  fine 
large  lady  in  a  sky-blue  frock  with  bursts  of  pink,  your 
hair  spangled  with  diamonds,  a  fan  in  one  hand,  a  long 
pair  of  gloves  in  the  other.  That  at  least  is  what  every- 
body else  saw  that  looked  at  you.  But  me,  what  I  seemed 
to  see  was  America  coming  toward  me  draped  in  the  stars 
and  stripes.  Now  you  know  how  I  feel  about  my  dear 
country.  If  I  loved  it  why  should  I  have  fixed  my  abode 
once  and  for  all  over  here?  And  yet  when  I  saw  it  com- 
ing toward  me  across  the  room,  with  your  eyes  and  smile 
and  look  of  Home,  I  felt  like  the  tiredest  traveler  and 
exile  in  the  whole  world,  who  wants  nothing,  nothing,  but 
to  get  Home  again.  It  was  like  a  moment's  insanity.  I 
almost  wonder  that  I  resisted  it,  the  desire  to  lay  my  head 
on  your  shoulder  and  cry,  Aurora,  and  tell  you  about  it, 
then  never  move  again,  or  say  another  word." 

Aurora  readjusted  her  position  so  as  to  make  his  lean- 
ing on  her  even  easier.  She  brought  a  warm  cover  safe- 
guardingly  around  him. 

' '  Poor  Geraldino ! ' '  she  pitied  him  in  the  lonely  past. 

''Then  do  you  remember  the  first  time  I  went  to  see 
you,"  he  asked,  "and  you  introduced  me,  dearest  woman, 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  297 

room  by  room,  to  the  somewhat  gruesome  mysteries  of 
your  house?  You  walked  before  me  holding  a  lamp.  In 
the  ballroom,  hazy  with  vastness,  you  held  the  lamp  high, 
like  a  torch.  And  I  had  a  vision  of  you  as  America 
again,  or  Liberty,  or  Something,  lighting  the  way  for  me. 
.  .  .  But  I  treated  the  fancy  as  one  treats  fancies.  I  did 
not  in  the  least  intend  to  cultivate  the  acquaintance  be- 
gun with  your  picking  me  up  by  the  loose  skin  of  the 
neck  and  plumping  me  down  on  the  little  seat  of  your 
victoria. ' ' 

*'Why — Gerald!"  she  drawled  in  a  tone  of  reproach 
purposely  funny.     *' Did  n't  you  want  to  come?" 

"I  wanted  not  to  come!"  he  answered,  with  normal 
spirit.  ''But  you  kept  saying  Jump  in.  When  a  lady 
has  said  Jump  in  three  times  it  acts  like  a  spell,  a  man 
has  got  to  jump." 

"But  when  it  came  to  the  hot  bread  and  syrup,  brother, 
you  know  you  were  glad  to  be  there.  You  kept  your 
superior  look,  but  you  ate  all  I  buttered  for  you.  It  did 
me  good  to  see  you." 

"Yes,"  he  grew  dreamy  again,  "it  took  me  back.  It 
took  me  back  to  so  many  things  I  had  nearly  forgotten. 
And  when  at  the  end  of  the  evening  I  was  leaving,  do  you 
remember,  Aurora,  wrapping  in  paper  some  pieces  of 
maple-sugar  and  forcing  me  to  take  them  home  in  my 
pocket?  I  felt  absurdly  like  a  little  boy  and  again  you 
seemed  like  big  America ;  something  exhaled  from  you  that 
made  me  think  of  slanting  silver-gray  roofs  and  the  New 
England  spring  of  appleblossoms  and  warbling  robins ;  yes, 
and  of  October  foliage  intolerably  bright,  and  Fourth  of 
July  celebrations.  Not  things  I  dote  on,  exactly,  but  things 
I  was  born  to,  and  restful  to  me  after  my  years  of  chasing 


298  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

what  is  not  to  be  caught,  wanting  what  is  not  to  be  had, 
seeking  all  the  time  to  adjust  myself,  to  adjust  myself,  to 
the  harshness  of  life,  the  treachery,  the  unaccountability, 
the  relentlessness — restful  as  this  heavenly  shoulder,  on 
which  I  have  wished  how  many  hundred  times  to  lay  my 
head  like  this  and  not  move  again,  or  speak  again,  or  have 
anything  ever  change.  Aurora,  don't  say  a  word,  dear. 
Particularly,  kindest  Aurora,  don't  make  any  of  your  little 
jokes.  Keep  perfectly  still,  like  a  good  darling,  and  let 
me  forget  everything  except  where  my  head  is,  and  be  per- 
fectly happy. ' ' 

As  seriously  as  if  a  god  had  commanded  it,  Aurora  pre- 
served the  silence  and  immobility  requested  of  her,  only 
making  her  shoulder  as  much  wider  and  softer  and  more 
comforting  as  she  could  by  wanting  it  to  be  so. 

When  by  and  by  she  felt  him  slip  a  little  as  he  began  to 
lose  himself  in  sleep,  she  clasped  her  hands  around  him 
supportingly  and  held  him  in  place. 

A  single  candle  burned  in  the  room,  with  a  book  to 
shade  it.  Aurora's  eyes,  fixed  and  starry,  rested  upon  the 
little  flame  where  it  was  reflected  in  a  mirror  on  the  wall 
opposite,  but  she  did  not  see  it  at  all,  so  absorbed  was  she 
in  her  thoughts.  In  her  feelings,  too.  In  the  wonder  of 
the  hour.  This  remarkable  Gerald,  with  his  head  packed 
full  of  knowledge,  with  his  speech  that  charmed  you  as 
whistling  does  an  adder,  with  his  capacity  to  paint  pictures 
that  the  rest  could  nof  even  understand,  and  then  his  rarity, 
the  sweetness  of  his  manners,  the  fascination  of  all  that 
unknown  in  him  which  came,  she  had  concluded,  from 
his  foreign  bringing-up — he  had  wanted  ever  since  he 
first  saw  her  just  to  lay  his  head  on  her  shoulder  and 
rest.  ... 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  299 

Her  common  ordinary  shoulder.  What  did  he  see  in  her  ? 
Taking  for  granted  that  he  saw  something,  Aurora  attrib- 
uted this  unknown  quality  in  herself  to  God,  and  thanked 
Him.  She  tightened  her  clasp  about  Gerald,  the  better  to 
feel  him  there.  The  power  of  the  sleeping-potion  had  over- 
taken him  completely.  Thoughts  that  moistened  her  eyes 
resulted  from  feeling  her  arms  full  of  the  breathing 
warmth  of  a  beloved  form.  Those  defrauded  maternal 
arms!  That  other,  who  would  have  been  five  years  old 
at  this  time,  and  would  have  been  called  little  Dan,  after 
Dan,  her  big  father,  how  she  would  have  nursed  him 
through  his  childish  ailments,  how  she  would  have  held 
him  and  rocked  him!  No,  she  would  never  stop  yearning 
over  him.     One  must  suppose  that  God  knows  best. 

Gerald  *s  breathing  was  deep  and  quiet.  When  sure  that 
it  could  be  done  without  waking  him,  she  let  him  gently 
down  on  to  the  pillow. 

She  stood  beside  the  bed  for  a  few  minutes,  in  her  soft 
garment  of  cashmere  and  swansdown  which  made  no  more 
sound  when  she  moved  than  did  her  velvet  shoes;  she 
watched  him  sleep  with  emotions  of  gratitude  beyond  pos- 
sibility of  expression  to  any  one  but  that  old  intimate,  God. 
He  was  getting  well  so  surely  and  fast.  He  would  shortly 
be  as  well  as  ever. 

Confident  that  he  would  want  nothing  more  for  the  rest 
of  the  night,  she  arranged  herself  ^in  her  easy-chair  for  a 
good  sleep,  too. 

On  the  next  day  she  divined  from  his  half  troubled  look 
at  her,  and  the  shy  modesty  of  his  manner,  that  he  was 
wondering  whether  he  had  actually  babbled  last  night,  or 
in  a  mild  delirium  dreamed  the  whole  thing.     Not  from 


800  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

her  might  he  find  out.  Her  easy,  matter-of-fact  way  made 
any  such  passage  seem  at  least  unlikely. 

Having  slept  during  the  night  she  did  not  retire  to  rest 
during  the  day,  but  let  Giovanna  go  about  her  long  neg- 
lected affairs  and  in  her  place  looked  after  Gerald,  who  had 
waked  from  his  deep  sleep  immensely  refreshed.  He  would 
not  need  a  constant  watcher  beside  him  after  this,  during 
night  or  day. 

' '  What  shall  I  do  to  amuse  you  ? ' '  she  asked  him,  to  make 
an  interruption  after  she  had  felt  him  watching  her  through 
half  closed  lids  for  some  time.  *' Don't  you  want  me  to 
read  to  you  ? ' ' 

"I  think  not,  Aurora.     Thank  you  just  as  much." 

''Well,  then,  how  shall  I  entertain  you?  Do  you  want 
me  to  be  a  gold-fish  for  you  ? ' ' 

''How  do  you  'be  a  gold-fish,'  Aurora?" 

"Look!"  But  the  instant  she  changed  her  face  into  a 
gold-fish's  and  waggled  up  through  imaginary  water,  open- 
ing and  shutting  her  mouth  like  a  rubber  valve,  he  hid  his 
eyes,  crying  sharply,  "Please  stop!  I  don't  want  to  see 
it." 

The  gold-fish  personality  was  dropped. 

"Very  well,  then,"  she  said,  with  unimpaired  serenity, 
"shall  I  do  a  squirrel  gnawing  a  nut?  Every  family  its 
own  circus." 

"If  you  do  it,  I  will  not  look.  How  can  you  endure, 
lovely  as  you  are,  to  make  yourself  ugly — grotesque?" 

"Aren't  you  rather  hard  to  suit  to-day,  mister?  Shall 
I  be  a  hen,  then,  scratching  for  her  chicks  ?     That  's  mild. ' ' 

"No,  no,  no.  Yes.  No.  I  don't  know  about  the  hen. 
Let  me  have  a  sample. ' ' 

He  watched  her,  critically  and  provisionally,  while  with 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  301 

comfortable,  motherly,  half-suppressed  chest-sounds,  and  a 
round  eye  cocked  for  finds  among  the  dirt,  remarkably  al- 
together the  appearance  of  a  pensive  white  hen,  she  made 
believe  to  scratch  up  the  earth  with  her  feet.  A  rather 
sympathetic  performance,  he  allowed,  her  imitation  of  the 
hen,  calling  up  before  one  the  vision  of  a  farmyard,  a 
brood  of  downy  yellow  chicks,  a  duckpond,  sunshine,  green 
things. 

He  let  her  do  it  as  long  as  she  would,  or  rather  until  to 
vary  the  thing  she  increased  the  comic  beyond  the  line  he 
fixed.  When  midday  found  him  grudgingly  laughing  at 
her  cackling,  it  seemed  improbable  certainly  that  midnight 
had  seen  him  sleeping  in  her  arms.  But  underlying  their 
laughter  was  a  consciousness  in  each  that  day  of  a  thing 
uniting  them  which  had  not  been  there  before. 

Sitting  bolstered  up  in  bed  to  eat  his  first  real  meal,  he 
looked,  with  his  long  hair  parted  in  the  middle  and  brushed 
down  over  his  hollow  temples,  like  one  of  those  old  masters 
in  the  Ewe-fitsy,  Aurora  told  him.  A  St.  John  the  Baptist, 
she  specified. 

She  chipped  the  top  off  his  egg  and  cut  finger  sizes  of 
bread  for  him,  so  that  he  might  have  it  in  the  foreign  way 
he  preferred. 

While  he  languidly  ate,  yet  with  pleasure,  the  door  softly 
swung  inward,  revealing  faces  of  women, — Estelle,  Clotilde, 
Livvy,  Giovanna, — all  equally  kind,  all  craning  for  the  de- 
light of  a  peep  at  him  eating  his  soft-boiled  egg. 

Because  he  was  still  weak,  tears  came  into  his  eyes,  and 
because  he  could  not  permit  them  to  be  seen,  he  waved  and 
haggardly  smiled  toward  the  smiling  and  nodding  faces 
without  inviting  them  nearer. 


302  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

Women!  women!  .  .  .  What  a  great  deal  of  room  they 
had  occupied  in  his  life!  How  much  he  owed  them  for 
affection, — mother,  sister,  servant-girl,  friends.  .  .  . 

He  had  known  from  whispers  and  rustlings,  from  a  sort 
of  instinct,  latterly  from  Giovanna's  own  lips,  that  his 
house  since  the  coming  of  ''that  lady"  to  undertake  the 
government  of  his  sickroom  had  been  full  of  people,  mak- 
ing practical  and  easy  the  carrying  out  of  her  plots. 
Abundance  of  people  and  abundance  of  money.  Old  Gio- 
vanna  grumbled  bitterly  at  this  invasion,  but  she  did  it 
inside  of  herself,  sanely  recognizing  that  she  had  subject 
for  gratitude.  Her  hot  dark  eye  looked  all  she  thought, 
and  her  lips  moved  as  she  soundlessly  said  all  she  felt ;  but 
when  she  dropped  into  the  dark  church  of  Santa  Maria 
degli  Angeli  for  a  moment's  devotion  she  did  not  fail  to 
ask  Maria  to  bless  "that  lady"  and  give  her  great  good. 
After  which  she  begged  Her  by  the  seven  swords  of  Her 
sorrow  to  hasten  the  day  that  should  clear  the  house  of 
the  whole  horde  of  strangers,  and  permit  her  to  resume 
the  quiet  life  with  her  signorino. 

Gerald,  whose  nature  felt  the  oppression  of  material 
benefits  as  much  as  Giovanna  felt  jealousy  with  regard  to 
her  rights  and  loves,  resolved  that  the  sole  seemly  return 
for  generosity  in  this  case  would  be  an  equal  generosity, 
consisting  in  an  acceptance  pure  of  every  shadow,  either 
of  obligation,  or  reserve,  or  regret. 

Since  the  doctor  said  it  would  do  the  invalid  no  harm 
to  admit  a  visitor  or  two,  Aurora  wrote  to  Mrs.  Foss.  She 
came  at  once  with  Leslie.  Both  on  the  occasion  of  this  call 
were  perfect,  in  tact,  in  warmth,  in  friendship.    And  yet 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  303 

with  them,  and  the  sense  of  the  World  and  the  World's 
point  of  view  which  they  inevitably  brought,  change  entered 
the  house. 

The  vacuous,  almost  happy  languor  of  the  sick  was  re- 
placed in  Gerald  by  an  irritable  gloominess,  decently  re- 
pressed, but  unconcealable. 

''There  's  no  mistake;  you  're  getting  well,"  remarked 
Aurora,  when  the  unrest  of  a  mind  troubled  by  many  things 
expressed  itself  in  indignation  against  innocent  inanimate 
objects,  a  drop  of  candle  wax  for  burning,  an  ivory 
paper-cutter  for  snapping  in  his  impatient  hand.  "You  're 
getting  well.  I  guess  I  can  go  home  and  feel  easy  about 
you. ' ' 

And  sooner  than  Giovanna  had  dared  to  hope  when  most 
fervently  she  invoked  the  Holy  Mother,  lo!  the  intruders, 
mistress  and  maids,  bag  and  baggage,  had  left  in  their 
places  room  and  silence.  So  much  sooner  than  expected 
that  Giovanna,  clasping  in  her  hands  an  incredible  fee. 
almost  found  it  in  herself  to  feel  regret. 


CHAPTER  XY 

ON  their  last  day  together  Gerald  had  asked  Aurora 
to  find  the  key  of  a  certain  desk-drawer  and  to 
bring  him  the  miniature  strong-box  locked  in  it. 
He  had  taken  out  one  by  one,  to  show  her,  the  little  store 
of  trinkets  once  belonging  to  his  mother  and  given  her 
from  among  them  the  one  he  thought  most  charming,  an 
old  silver  cross  studded  with  amethysts  and  pearls. 

Her  own  house,  when  she  reentered  it,  looked  faintly 
unfamiliar,  as  if  she  had  been  away  much  longer  than  she 
had  by  actual  count.  But  her  big  soft  bed  looked  good 
to  her,  she  told  Estelle,  after  the  bed  of  granite  framed  in 
iron  she  had  lately  occupied. 

She  was  in  high  good  spirits.  Gerald  out  of  the  woods, 
the  amethyst  cross,  Estelle  and  her  beautiful  commodious 
house  returned  to,  vistas  ahead  of  good  times  and  heart 
satisfactions,  a  sense  of  success  and  the  richness  of  life — 
Aurora  was  in  splendid  spirits. 

Estelle  and  she  slept  together  on  the  first  night,  so  as  to 
be  able  to  buzz  until  morning,  as  they  had  used  to  do  in 
their  young  days,  when  one  of  them  was  allowed  to  go  on 
a  visit  to  the  other  and  stay  overnight.  There  ensued  a 
very  orgy  of  talk,  a  going  over  of  all  that  had  happened 
since  their  separation,  quite  as  if  they  had  not  once  seen 
each  other  in  the  interval. 

It  might  have  been  thought,  when  their  remarks  finally 
became  far  spaced,  as  they  did  between  two  and  three  of 

304 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  305 

the  morning,  that  this  happened  because  the  streams  were 
running  dry  as  well  as  because  the  talkers  were  growing 
sleepy;  but  no  such  thing.  Each  had  loads  more  that  she 
might  have  told ;  but  each,  as  had  not  been  the  case  in  the 
old  days,  was  keeping  back  something  from  the  other.  Each 
locked  in  her  breast  a  secret. 

There  had  naturally  been  talk  of  Gerald.  Estelle  was 
immensely  nice  about  him,  and  Aurora  appeared  immensely 
frank,  but  yet  both  knew  that  he  was  to  be  a  delicate  sub- 
ject between  them  thenceforward,  and  that  thoughts  relat- 
ing to  him  could  not  be  exchanged  without  reserve. 

There  had  been  laughter  over  Estelle 's  subterfuges  in 
order  not  to  let  it  be  learned  from  her,  and  this  without 
directly  lying,  that  Aurora  was  actually  living  at  Gerald 's. 
*'It  's  a  ease  of  a  cold,"  she  had  explained  her  friend's 
non-appearance  upon  one  occasion,  without  mentioning 
whose  cold. 

The  details  of  Busteretto  's  illness  and  danger  had  caused 
him  to  be  reached  for  in  the  dark  and  kissed  and  cuddled 
anew. 

**My,  but  it  's  nice  to  have  you  back!"  Estelle  said  in 
the  morning,  fixing  a  bright,  fond  gaze  upon  her  friend 
across  the  little  table  in  the  bedroom,  where  they  sat  in 
their  wrappers  eating  breakfast.  "A  penny  for  jour 
thoughts,  Nell.     What  are  you  thinking  about?" 

Nell  smiled  rather  foolishlj^,  then,  putting  Satan  behind 
her  in  the  shape  of  a  temptation  to  prevaricate,  said : 

''I  was  thinking  what  they  were  doing  over  there. 
Whether  Gerald  has  had  a  good  night,  and  about  Giov- 
anna,  and  what  it  's  all  like  without  me.  It  's  hard  for 
me  now  to  think  of  the  place  without  me.  I  miss  myself 
there." 


306  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

''I  suppose  you  '11  be  driving  round  to  inquire  sometime 
in  the  course  of  the  day, ' '  Estelle  said,  with  true  generosity ; 
at  which  Aurora  tried  to  look  as  if  she  were  not  sure ;  she 
would  think  about  it. 

With  arms  around  each  other's  waists  they  went  through 
all  the  rooms  for  Aurora  to  renew  her  pleasure  in  them 
after  absence.  They  came  to  a  standstill  before  her  por- 
trait in  the  drawing-room. 

*' There  's  no  mistake,  he  's  talented,"  Estelle  admitted 
good-humoredly,  after  a  considerable  silence.  ''That  's  a 
fine  portrait." 

Aurora  did  not  say  she  thought  so,  too.  Alone  in  her 
room  later,  while  Estelle  was  dressing  to  go  out  together, 
she  looked  at  the  other  portrait  to  see  if  she  were  **any 
nearer  educated  up  to  it."  It  seemed  to  her  she  was,  a 
little  bit. 

She  started  to  dress.  Being  given  to  homely  rather  than 
poetic  fancies,  she  subsequently  thought  of  herself  as  having 
been,  during  the  process  of  making  herself  fine  for  the 
afternoon  drive  and  call,  like  some  Cape  Cod  young  one 
trotting  happily  along  with  her  tin  pail  full  of  blueberries, 
just  before  a  big  dog  sprang  out  of  the  roadside  tangle  and 
jostled  the  pail  out  of  her  hand,  so  that  all  the  berries 
were  spilled.  .  .  . 

Even  as  she  was  buttoning  her  gloves  a  letter  came  for 
her  with  a  parcel.  All  rosy  with  delight,  she  quickly  found 
in  her  purse  a  reward  for  Gaetano,  the  bringer.  With- 
out too  much  hurry,  like  a  person  not  eager  to  shorten 
a  solid  enjoyment,  she  opened  the  letter.  It  did  not  strike 
her  as  surprising,  certainly  not  as  ominous,  that  Gerald 
should  write  when  he  might  expect  to  see  her  so  soon.  She 
read: 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  307 

This  is  the  fourth  letter,  dearest  Aurora,  that  I  have 
written  you  since  waking,  after  a  very  bad  night,  in  such 
a  black  humor  that  you  would  know  I  am  quite  myself 
again  and  life  has  resumed  for  me  its  natural  colors.  I 
destroyed  those  letters  one  after  the  other  because,  although 
written  with  the  effort  of  my  whole  being  to  be  what  you 
call  sweet,  they  sounded  to  me  insufferably  disagreeable. 
And  now  whatever  I  write  I  shall  have  to  send  because  if  I 
destroy  this  letter  also  I  shall  not  have  time  to  write  an- 
other before  you  come  to  see  me  as  you  promised.  And 
the  reason  for  my  wretched  night  was  that  I  was  haunted 
by  all  the  reasons  there  are  why  you  should  not  come. 
They  are  so  difficult  to  put  into  words  that  I  despair,  after 
three  attempts,  of  doing  it  in  any  but  an  offensive  manner. 
Pity,  Aurora,  the  plight  of  your  poor  patient ;  permit  him 
not  to  go  into  them.     Just — don't  come. 

Alas!  that  cannot  be  all.  I  have  the  vision  of  your 
puzzled  face.  Well,  then,  it  is  for  yourself,  in  part.  I 
have  no  excuse  for  profiting  by  a  kindness  that  may  be 
harmful  to  you.  It  is  my  duty  to  regard  for  you  the  con- 
ventions you  are  big-heartedly  willing  to  disregard.  I  de- 
plore the  fact  that  I  was  ever  so  weak  as  to  forget  it. 

But  it  is  also  for  myself,  who  must  not  further  be  de- 
moralized and  spoiled. 

I  must  not,  moreover,  be  laid  further  under  obligations 
of  gratitude,  the  less,  my  dear  Aurora,  that  gratitude  is 
not  precisely  what  I  feel.  No.  I  so  little  dote  upon  life 
that  I  should  be  glad  if  a  merciful  angel's  attention  had 
not  been  drawn  to  me,  and  I  perhaps  might  have  escaped 
the  dreary  prolongation  of  years.     I  am  sorry,  but  so  it  is. 

Pray  do  not  conceive  any  relation  between  what  I  have 
just  written  and  the  request  that  follows.    Will  you  be  so 


308  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

kind  as  to  return  the  object  belonging  to  me  which  I  miss 
from  the  little  table-drawer  at  the  head  of  my  bed?  You 
had  no  right  to  take  it. 

Vincent  Johns  is  coming  in  a  day  or  two.  Do  not  think 
of  me,  therefore,  as  lonely  or  neglected. 

I  find  I  must  hurry  or  be  too  late.  This  letter  is  beastly 
and  ought  to  be  torn  up  like  the  others.  It  simply  cannot ; 
it  must  go.  I  can  only  pray,  Aurora,  that  you  will  under- 
stand. 

Aurora  went  back  to  the  beginning  and  read  the  letter 
a  second  time.  Then  she  turned  to  the  accompanying  par- 
cel and  noticed  that  it  was  done  up  in  a  shabby  piece  of  old 
newspaper.  It  contained  a  pair  of  fur-lined  velvet  shoes, 
a  bow-knot  of  blue  satin  ribbon,  and  a  bottle  of  almond 
milk,  things  of  her  own  which  through  carelessness  had 
been  left  behind.  She  could  not  know  that  the  honest  Gio- 
vanna  alone  was  responsible  for  this  return  of  her  property. 
Coming  at  that  moment,  it  formed  the  occasion  for  two 
stinging  tears  rising  to  the  edge  of  Aurora's  eyes.  She 
swept  them  away  with  the  back  of  her  glove,  and  forbade 
any  more  to  follow.  To  prevent  them  she  took  her  lips 
between  her  teeth,  and  with  all  her  strength  called  upon 
her  pride. 

She  read  Gerald's  letter  over  again,  really  trying  to 
understand,  to  be  fair,  to  interpret  it  in  the  high-minded 
way  he  would  wish. 

''When  all  is  said,  it  amounts  to  this," — she  reached  the 
end  of  that  exercise  by  a  short  cut, — "he  wants  to  be  let 
alone." 

And  after  every  allowance  had  been  made  for  him,  and 
all  due  deference  paid  to  his  excellent  reasons,  still  it 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  309 

seemed  to  her  what  she  couldn't  call  anything  but  a  poor 
return.  Because  his  letter  was  bound  to  hurt  her,  and  he 
must  have  known  it.  His  sending  it,  therefore,  argued  a 
lack  of  any  very  deep  affection  for  her.  After  she  had 
come,  just  from  his  own  words  and  actions,  to  suppos- 
ing. .  .  . 

''This  is  what  you  get  for  not  remembering  that  if  a 
person  is  practically  a  foreigner  you  can  never  expect  to 
know  them  except  in  spots,"  she  admonished  herself. 

After  they  had  driven  in  the  Cascine  and  around  the 
Viali  for  the  sunshine  and  air,  Aurora  asked  suddenly: 

"Haven't  we  had  enough  of  this?"  and  ordered  the 
coachman  to  go  home. 

"Why!"  exclaimed  Estelle,  astonished,  **I  thought  we 
were  going  to  Gerald  Fane 's  to  see  how  he  's  getting  along ! ' ' 

**No,  I  guess  we  won't.  I  think  it  's  time,  after  living 
with  him  for  three  weeks,  that  I  began  to  look  after  my 
reputation,  don't  you?"  said  Aurora,  with  a  forced  light- 
ness of  rather  bitter  effect. 

*'I  had  a  note  from  him,  anyhow,  just  before  we  came 
out,"  she  added  after  a  moment.     *'He  's  doing  all  right." 

Estelle  understood  that  something  was  wrong.  Aurora 
could  not  successfully  pretend  with  her.  Aurora's  trans- 
parent face,  as  she  now  took  note  of  it,  betrayed  hidden 
perplexity  and  chagrin.  Estelle  asked  no  questions,  not 
needing  to  be  told  that  Gerald's  note  had  worked  the  change. 
Despite  her  affection  for  her  friend,  indeed,  just  because 
of  that  affection,  Estelle  was  quietly  glad  of  it.  Her 
thought  caressed  the  secret  which  has  been  referred  to,  a 
scheme  which  for  some  weeks  had  given  her  an  excited  feel- 
ing of  having  between  her  fingers  the  thread  of  the  Fates. 


310  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

After  Estelle  had  gone  to  her  own  room  for  the  night, 
Aurora  sat  down  to  compose  an  answer  to  Gerald's  letter. 
She  had  reflected  a  good  deal  since  receiving  it,  and  out  of 
confusion  and  complexity  singled  one  clear  and  simple 
thought  or  two. 

Gerald  had  never  said  or  intimated  that  she  had  forced 
herself  upon  him  when  he  was  too  ill  to  help  it;  but  the 
truth  was  she  had  done  that,  after  all  his  shying  rocks 
at  her,  too,  to  keep  her  off.  Nor  had  Gerald  suggested 
that  one  of  his  reasons  for  wishing  her  not  to  haunt  his 
bedside  was  a  fear  of  her  becoming  inconveniently  fond 
of  him.  A  hint  could  be  found,  if  one  chose,  that  he  feared 
becoming  too  fond  of  her,  but  of  the  other  no  vestige,  no 
shadow,  or  ghost  of  a  shadow.  Yet  by  those  two  points  the 
spirit  of  Aurora's  reply  must  be  inspired.  Centuries  of 
civilization  have  ground  into  the  female  of  the  species  one 
particular  lesson. 

So  the  irascible  man's  nervous,  hurried  and  harried 
scrawl,  written  with  sputtering  pen  that  at  several  places 
tore  clean  through  the  paper,  and  written  under  the  com- 
pulsion of  his  soul  and  his  good  sense,  received  from  the 
best  of  women  an  answer  in  her  calmest  hand,  deliberately 
calculated  to  give  him  pain,  at  the  same  time  as  to  convey 
to  him  unambiguously  that,  as  far  as  she  was  concerned, 
he  was  freer  than  the  birds  of  the  air.     She  wrote : 

My  dear  friend  Gerald, 

What  I  want  principally  to 
say  is  just  donH  worry.  Don't  worry  for  fear  I  '11  come, 
and  don't  worry  for  fear  I  won't  understand,  and  don't 
worry  because  you  think  my  feelings  may  be  hurt.  And 
above  all  the  rest,  don't  worry  about  gratitude,  for  I  don't 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  311 

feel  you  owe  me  any  at  all.  Don't  you  think  for  a  moment 
that  I  saved  your  life.  You  were  not  as  sick  as  you 
imagine,  I  guess.  It  was  a  very  light  case,  or  how  would 
you  have  got  over  it  so  soon?  You  were  not  near  as  sick, 
according  to  all  accounts,  as  poor  Busteretto,  who  has  been 
having  what  they  call  here  the  cimurro.  I  took  you  in 
hand  because  I  am  a  nurse  and  I  couldn't  keep  my  hands 
off,  just  as  an  old  fire-engine  horse  will  start  to  gallop 
when  he  hears  a  fire-alarm  even  if  he  isn't  on  the  job.  If 
it  had  been  Italo  Ceccherelli  who  was  sick  I  would  have 
been  tempted  in  just  the  same  way ;  so  you  see  there  is  no 
occasion  for  gratitude.     Put  it  out  of  your  mind. 

Now  about  the  thing  I  took  from  the  drawer  of  your 
night-stand.  I  am  very  sorry  I  can't  give  it  back,  because 
I  flung  it  out  in  the  middle  of  the  river.  That  is  what  I 
did  with  it,  and  I  am  not  sorry  either.  You  know  that  we 
at  home  don't  look  upon  certain  things  as  you  apparently 
do  over  here.  We  think  it  a  disgrace  for  a  man  to  kill 
himself.  I  myself  am  old-fashioned  enough  to  think  that 
that  door  leads  to  hell.  I  have  been  astonished  to  find  that 
over  here  it  is  thought  quite  respectable,  that  some  Italians 
look  upon  it  as  an  honorable  way,  for  instance,  of  paying 
their  debts,  and  a  natural  way  of  getting  over  an  unhappy 
love-affair.  As  I  know  you  have  a  good  many  foreign 
ideas,  and  as  you  have  once  or  twice  made  a  remark  that 
showed  me  you  thought  of  that  solution  of  difficulties  as 
a  possible  one,  I  grabbed  your  nasty  old  pistol  when  I 
found  it  in  the  little  drawer,  and  it  reposes  now  at  the 
bottom  of  the  Amo.  Don't  get  another,  Gerald.  No 
burglars  are  going  to  enter  your  house  to  steal  your  Roman 
tear-bottle  or  your  books.  When  you  are  so  blue  you  feel 
like  killing  yourself,  say  your  prayers.     I  am  very  glad 


312  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

your  friend  the  abbe  is  going  to  come  and  stay  with  you. 
He  is  a  good  influence,  I  feel  sure,  and  a  good  friend. 

I  suppose  I  shall  see  you  again  some  time,  even  if  I  don't 
do  the  visiting.  But  don't  be  in  any  hurry,  not  on  my 
account.  I  hope  that  in  the  meantime  you  will  get  back 
your  strength  quickly.  Remember  that  you  will  have  to 
be  very  careful  for  quite  a  long  time,  because  a  relapse  is 
an  awfully  mean  thing. 

Good-by,  my  dear  Gerald.  Please  accept  the  very  best 
wishes  of 

Yours  sincerely, 

Aurora  Hawthorne. 

P.S.  I  did  not  write  four  letters  and  tear  three  of  them 
up,  like  you.  I  wrote  one  and  corrected  it,  and  here  I  have 
copied  it  out  for  you,  hoping  that  in  it  I  have  made  my 
meaning  as  clear  to  you  as  you  made  yourg  clear  to  me  in 
your  letter. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

WHEN  the  latter  occurrences  had  shaken  down  in 
Aurora's  mind,  Gerald's  letter,  which  she  from 
time  to  time  re-read,  impressed  her  as  a  most 
gentle  and  reasonable  production  of  his  pen,  while  her  own 
letter,  preserved  in  the  original  scribble,  appeared  to  her 
horrid,  cutting,  and  uncalled  for. 

But  there  was  now  nothing  to  do  about  it.  The  state  of 
mind  created  in  her  by  the  whole  episode  prepared  her  to 
w^elcome  with  open  arms  any  diversion,  any  event  which 
would  restore  to  her  self-conceit  a  little  vitality  or  lay  on 
her  heart  a  little  balm;  and  so  when,  at  the  psychological 
moment.  Doctor  Thomas  Bewick  surprisingly  turned  up  in 
Florence, — it  may  be  remembered  that  he  was  Estelle's 
choice  for  Nell, — Nell  fell  on  his  neck  quite  literally,  and 
gave  him  a  full,  sonorous  kiss. 

*'Tom!  Tom!"  she  cried  in  delight,  ''how  good  it  is 
to  see  you ! '  * 

This  happened  in  her  formal  drawing-room,  whither  she 
had  gone  on  the  servant's  announcement  that  a  gentleman 
from  America,  who  had  given  no  card  or  name,  asked  to 
see  her. 

Their  greeting  over,  she  ran  out  into  the  hall,  screaming 
joyfully : 

''Hat!  Hat!  Come  down  this  minute!  Hurry  up! 
You  '11  never  guess  who  's  here ! " 

313 


314  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

In  reply  to  which  summons  Estelle  came  hurrying  down 
the  stairs  with  an  innocent,  expectant  air. 

"  If  it  is  n  't  Doctor  Bewick ! ' '  she  exclaimed,  without  giv- 
ing herself  away  by  one  false  inflection.  "Why,  Doctor 
Bewick,  this  is  simply  too  awfully  nice !  What  are  you  do- 
ing over  here?     Who  would  have  expected  to  see  yo^if 

''Tom,''  said  Aurora,  ''I  was  never  in  my  life  so  glad 
to  see  any  one.  I  did  n't  know  how  much  I  'd  missed  you 
till  I  saw  you.  You  good  old  thing!  You  nice  old  boy! 
Aren't  you  a  brick  to  have  come!  My  soul,  my  soul!  I 
did  n  't  know  till  this  minute  how  tired  I  am  of  foreigners 
and  half-foreigners  and  quarter-foreigners  and  all  their 
ways.  I  was  hungry  for  home-folks  and  didn't  know  it. 
Now,  please  God,  we  '11  have  some  talk  where  we  know  that 
when  we  use  the  same  words  we  mean  the  same  thing,  and 
aren't  wondering  all  the  time  what  's  really  in  the  other's 
mind ! ' ' 

The  man  to  whom  this  was  said  absorbed  it  with  a  face 
fixed  in  smiles  of  pleasure.  He  was  a  big  blond  man,  dis- 
posed to  corpulence,  and  looking  somewhat  like  a  fresh- 
faced,  gigantic  boy  until  his  eye  met  yours  and  gave  the 
note  of  a  fine,  mature  intelligence,  open  on  every  side,  and 
unobtrusively  gathering  in  what  it  had  no  strong  impulse 
afterward  to  give  out  again  in  any  open  form  of  self- 
expression. 

Tolerant,  not  from  any  vagueness  of  judgment;  easy  to 
get  on  with,  but  not  to  drive  or  to  deceive,  he  looked  strik- 
ingly the  good  fellow,  yet  kept  you  in  respect.  An  air  of 
capability,  a  consciousness  of  definite  achievements,  went 
coupled  in  him  with  the  humor  that  would  prevent  bump- 
tiousness however  great  the  matter  for  pride.  A  quiet 
carelessness  of  other  people's  opinions  formed  part  of  his 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  315 

effect  of  poise;  the  opinions  of  dukes  would  have  affected 
him  as  little  as  those  of  rag-pickers,  unless  they  recom- 
mended themselves  to  that  judicial  spot  in  his  brain  at 
which  he  tried  them.  He  was  level-headed,  unsentimental, 
but  kind,  of  a  kindness  that  like  good-humor  seemed  almost 
physical,  and  made  him  stop  to  stroke  the  kitchen  cat  as 
well  as  see  to  it  that  the  negress's  baby  had  the  right  milk 
for  its  orphaned  stomach. 

He  looked  at  Aurora  with  smiling  scrutiny,  and  facially 
expressed  a  vast  appreciation.  She  looked  back  at  him  with 
eyes  of  laughing  tenderness.  Avoiding  to  speak  directly 
to  her  the  compliments  rising  in  his  mind,  he  turned  to 
Estelle. 

"Hasn't  she  blossomed  out!" 

''Isn't  she  wonderful?"  chimed  in  that  friend,  enthusi- 
astically. 

Aurora,  with  a  comedy  of  pride,  threw  up  her  chin, 
lifted  her  arms,  and  turned  as  if  on  a  pivot,  to  show  her- 
self off  in  her  elegance.  She  had  on  the  wine-colored 
street-dress  bordered  with  black  fox;  over  its  white  satin 
waistcoat  embroidered  with  gold  hung  in  a  splendid  loop 
her  pink  corals.  The  restraining  Paris  corset  gave  to  her 
luxuriant  form  a  charming  modish  correctness  of  line. 

'  *  Oh,  Tom, ' ' — she  sank  happily  on  the  sofa  beside  him, — 
*'we  're  having  the  time  of  our  lives!  Just  wait  till  you 
see  me  in  company,  and  hear  me  put  on  my  good  English, 
when,  instead  of  calling  things  lovely  or  horrid,  I  call 
them  amusing  or  beastly  or  impossible.  But  your  turn  first. 
Give  us  the  Denver  news." 

After  dinner  that  evening,  in  the  midst  of  Italo's  bril- 
liant performance,  a  caller  came, — a  thin,  oldish,  English- 


316  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

speaking  lady  whose  black  dress  made  no  pretense  of  fol- 
lowing the  fashion. 

Aurora  had  met  her  at  Mrs.  Satterlee  's  during  a  meeting 
appointed  to  raise  funds  for  the  Protestant  orphanage. 
When  this  philanthropist,  after  a  little  talk  of  other  things, 
mentioned  the  relict  of  a  mason,  left  with  five  young  chil- 
dren, Estelle  and  Dr.  Bewick  took  it  as  a  hint  to  withdraw 
beyond  earshot.  The  two  ladies  were  left  talking  in  under- 
tones; after  a  minute  they  found  themselves  alone  in  the 
room. 

Estelle  preceded  Dr.  Bewick  across  the  hall  to  the  dining- 
room,  deserted  and  orderly,  where  the  drop-light  rained  its 
direct  brightness  only  on  the  rich  and  variegated  tapestry 
cover  of  the  table  beneath  it.  From  the  sideboard — whence 
the  marble  fruit  had  for  some  time  been  missing — she 
brought  a  bottle  of  aerated  water  and  a  glass  to  set  before 
him;  she  found  him  an  ash-tray,  and  seated  herself  beside 
the  table  near  him  in  such  a  way  as  to  get,  through  the 
parted  half -doors,  a  glimpse  of  the  visitor  when  she  should 
leave. 

Before  speaking,  she  exchanged  with  the  doctor  a  look 
of  intelligence. 

*'You  see  what  I  mean?"  she  asked  little  above  a  whis- 
per. 

Dr.  Bewick  looked  all  around  the  room  with  leisurely 
appraising  eyes,  then  nodded  understanding.  There  was 
no  intimation  that  he  was  not  ready  to  listen,  but  he  did 
not  seem  quite  ready  to  talk.  His  white  shirt-bosom  was 
remarkably  broad  as  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  in  the 
slightly  lolling  fashion  of  large,  good-humored  men.  For 
all  the  nonchalance  of  his  attitude,  he  looked,  from  evening 
tie  to  thin-soled  dress-boots,  beautifully  spruce,  as  Aurora 


Aurora,  with  a  comedy  of  prido.  threw  up  her  chin,  lifted  lier 
arms,  and  turned  as  if  on  a  pivot,  to  show  herself  oti'  in  her 
elegance 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  317 

had  remarked,  and  made  an  approi)riate  pendant  to  her 
in  her  Parisian  finery. 

Approval  of  him  was  written  large  on  Estelle's  pleasant, 
alert  countenance;  a  quiet,  comprehensive  liking  for  her 
sat  as  plainly  in  the  eyes  reflecting  her  slim  person  and 
evening-frock  of  beaded  net.  Being  Nell's  friends  made 
them  friends,  a  thing  not  so  common  as  one  wishes. 
Through  her  they  felt  almost  on  the  familiar  terms  of  old 
friendship,  although  Estelle  had  never  met  Dr.  Tom  Be- 
wick before  he  came  to  New  York  to  see  them  off  on  their 
great  four-stacked  ocean-steamer. 

''You  see  what  I  mean?"  she  asked,  and,  not  expecting 
a  regular  answer,  did  not  wait  for  it.  "Now  that  woman 
won't  leave  until  she  has  secured  support  for  the  mason's 
five  children,  and  she  '11  do  this  without  the  smallest  diffi- 
culty. In  a  day  or  two  some  one  else  will  come,  with  the 
sad  case  of  a  poor  father  out  of  work  who  is  going  to  have 
to  sell  his  blind  daughter's  canary  unless  Nell  steps  in  to 
relieve  their  wants.  And  Nell  will  step  in.  Word  has  been 
passed,  just  as  they  say  a  tramp  at  home  marks  a  house 
where  he  's  been  given  a  meal,  and  every  case  of  want  in 
this  town,  it  seems  to  me,  is  hopefully  brought  to  Nell. 
And  she  listens  every  time ;  she  does  n  't  get  sick  of  it. 
And  you  know,  Doctor,  that  her  circumstances  don't  war- 
rant it." 

Bewick,  as  Estelle  stopped  for  some  comment  on  his  side, 
made  a  slight  motion  of  chin  and  eyelids  that  partly  or 
deprecatingly  agreed  with  her.  He  took  the  cigar  out  of 
his  mouth,  but  having  knocked  the  ash  off,  replaced  it,  to 
listen  further  and  not  for  the  moment  speak. 

**It  's  positively  funny,  the  things  Nell  has  been  doing 
with  her  money,"  Estelle  went  on,  in  a  tone  that  did  not 


318  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

disguise  the  fact  of  her  glorying  in  this  prodigality  while 
being  justly  frightened  by  it.  '*It  's  not  just  the  ordinary 
charities,  churches,  hospitals,  etc., — all  of  those  send  in  their 
regular  bills,  as  you  might  say.  It  's  a  Swiss  music-box 
for  the  crippled  son  of  the  spazzaturaio,  or  street-cleaner; 
it  's  a  marriage-portion  for  this  one  and  funeral  expenses 
for  that  one;  it  's  filling  the  mendicant  nuns'  coal-cellar, 
it  's  clothing  a  whole  orphan-school  in  a  cheerfuller  color! 
Clotilde  and  Italo  call  her  attention  to  every  deserving 
case,  and  are  guided  in  this  by  the  simple  knowledge  that 
Nell  can't  hold  on  to  her  money.  Of  course  it  's  her  good 
heart.  She  's  done  a  lot  for  them  and  their  family,  too, 
I  've  discovered.  I  don't  know  just  how  much,  but  I  can 
guess  by  their  look  of  licking  their  chops.  I  'm  not  saying 
they  aren't  all  right — honest,  sincere,  and  so  forth — or 
that  I  don't  like  them.  It  's  Nell's  own  fault  that  she  's 
imposed  on.  I  don 't  doubt  that  they  're  as  devoted  as  they 
seem,  it  's  only  right  they  should  be.  It  's  right  the  whole 
city  of  Florence  should  be.  I  was  thinking  only  the  other 
day  as  we  drove  through  Viale  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent 
that  it  would  be  appropriate  for  a  grateful  city  to  rechristen 
our  street  Viale  Aurora  the  Magnificent." 

Tom  Bewick  laughed,  nodding  to  himself  with  an  effect 
of  relish.     He  murmured,  ''Aurora  the  Magnificent!" 

**  Aurora  the  Magnificent — Aurora  the  Magnificent  is  all 
very  well,"  Estelle  took  up  again  with  animation,  **but 
she  's  already  spending  her  capital." 

Bewick  did  not  allow  himself  to  appear  startled  or  trou- 
bled; still,  he  was  made  pensive  by  this.  His  look  at  Es- 
telle invited  her  to  go  on  and  tell  him  the  rest,  just  how 
bad  it  was.     She  was  leaning  forward,  with  her  elbows  on 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  319 

the  table,  one  hand  slipping  the  rings  on  and  off  a  finger 
of  the  other,  in  her  quick  way. 

"You  know  what  her  income  is.  It  would  have  pro- 
vided for  all  this," — she  took  in  the  luxury  around  them 
by  a  gesture  of  the  head, — "but  no  income  can  suffice  to  set 
up  in  housekeeping  all  the  picturesque  paupers  in  Flor- 
ence. That  's  why  I  was  so  anxious  for  you  to  come,  and 
wrote  you  as  I  did.  You  can  curb  her;  I  can't.  I  have 
no  influence  with  her  in  that  way,  and  I  simply  can't  sit 
still  and  see  her  throw  away  all  this  good  money  that  was 
intended  to  provide  her  with  comforts  for  the  rest  of  her 
life.  Unless  somebody  looks  after  it,  she  won't  have  a 
penny  left.  You  must  talk  to  her.  Doctor  Bewick.  Don't 
let  her  know,  though,  that  I  put  you  up  to  it.  You  can 
ask  a  plain  question,  as  it  's  right  and  natural  for  you 
to  do,  then  when  she  answers  you  can  lecture  her.  She  '11 
take  it  from  you." 

Bewick,  with  his  sensible  face,  looked  as  if  he  saw  jus- 
tice and  reason  in  all  ]\Iiss  Madison  had  said  to  him;  yet 
he  did  not  go  on  with  the  subject.  It  might  be  that  he  felt 
delicate,  in  a  masculine  way,  about  uttering  to  a  lady's 
best  friend  any  criticism  of  that  lady's  mode  of  doing  or 
being — criticism  which  he  might  feel  no  difficulty  perhaps 
in  voicing  to  herself.  Estelle  took  this  into  consideration 
and,  his  reticence  notwithstanding,  relied  on  him  to  do  his 
duty. 

A  diversion  occurred  in  the  shape  of  a  knock  at  the  door 
— the  door  leading  to  the  kitchen-stairs.  It  was  but  the 
scratch  of  one  fingernail  on  the  wood.  Tiny  as  the  sound 
was,  it  did  not  have  to  be  repeated  before  Estelle  ran  to 
open.     A  small  four-footed  person  entered,  the  bigness  of 


320  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

a  baby's  muff  and  the  whiteness  of  a  marquis's  powdered 
wig.  Estelle  caught  him  up  from  the  floor  and  with  a  coo 
of  affection,  * '  What  um  doing  in  the  kitchen,  little  rogums  ? ' ' 
set  him  on  the  table,  under  the  lamp,  for  Doctor  Tom  to 
see  how  utterly  beautiful  he  was  and  have  the  points  and 
characteristics  of  a  Maltese  terrier  explained  to  him. 

Busteretto  was  reaching  dog 's  estate,  his  shape  had  taken 
on  a  degree  of  subtlety,  his  hair  was  growing  long  and 
straight  and  like  leaves  of  the  weeping  willow.  Estelle 
lifted  the  white  fringe  depending  from  his  brow,  and  ex- 
posed to  the  light  two  great  limpid  brown  eyes,  incredibly 
sweet  and  intelligent.  It  was  as  wonderful,  in  its  way,  as 
if  a  blind  beggar,  insignificant  and  easy  to  pass  by  as  he 
stood  at  the  street-corner,  should  take  off  black  goggles 
suddenly,  and  you  should  perceive  that  he  was  a  masking 
angel  come  to  test  the  hearts  of  men. 

''Did  you  ever  see  such  a  little  sweet-heart?"  gasped 
Estelle. 

**A  pretty  little  fellow,"  spoke  the  doctor  commendingly. 
With  the  instinct  to  relieve  discomfort  he  raised  the  veil 
of  hair  again  as  soon  as  Estelle  had  let  it  drop,  and  looking 
further  into  the  beautiful  eyes,  that  with  the  neat  nose 
made  a  triangle  of  dark  spots  effective  as  mouches  on  Co- 
lumbine's cheek, — ''Why  don't  you  tie  up  his  hair  like  this 
to  keep  it  out  of  the  way  ? "  he  asked. 

"We  mustn't!  Mr.  Fane,  who  gave  him  to  Nell,  says 
it  would  be  bad  for  him,  he  might  go  blind.  They  're  that 
kind  of  eyes  and  need  the  shield  from  the  light.  Mr.  Pane 
knows  all  about  this  Maltese  breed  of  dogs." 

"  Is  he  the  same  one  who  painted  her  portrait  ? ' '  Dr.  Tom 
deviated  from  the  subject  of  the  dog,  over  whose  eyes  the 
curtain  was  allowed  to  drop  again. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  321 

**Yes,  he  's  an  artist." 

''And  the  same  one  she  nursed  through  an  illness?" 
asked  Dr.  Tom  after  a  moment,  with  the  mere  amount  of 
interest  apparently  of  one  asking  for  a  topographical  de- 
tail, so  that  he  may  get  his  bearings. 

"Yes.  You  'd  know,  wouldn't  you,  that  she  'd  have  to, 
if  she  thought  he  wasn't  getting  the  right  care  and  did  n't 
see  any  other  way  of  providing  it." 

''Well,  Skip,"  Dr.  Tom  returned  his  attention  to  the 
dog,  "you  're  a  fine  little  fellow.  Yes,  sir."  He  held  out 
a  large  pink  hand  and  received  in  it  immediately  a  wee 
gentlemanly  hand  of  fur  and  horn,  rather  smaller  than  any 
of  his  fingers.  "Good  dog,"  he  said,  and  regarded  their 
friendship  as  sealed.  But  next  minute,  because  Estelle 
had  whispered  to  him,  "Make  believe  to  strike  me,"  he 
lifted  his  fist  menacingly  against  her,  and  on  the  instant, 
with  the  courage  of  a  David,  there  dashed  against  him  a 
little  wild  white  flurry,  not  to  bite — ^the  skin  of  man  is 
sacred — but  by  a  show  of  pearly  teeth  and  the  growlings 
of  a  lion  to  frighten  the  giant  off. 

"Good  dog!"  cheered  Tom  and  leaned  back  laughing, 
"Well  done!" 

Because  it  was  very  late  when  Dr.  Bewick  left  the  ladies 
to  return  to  his  hotel  they  immediately  repaired  to  their 
respective  rooms ;  but  before  Estelle  had  got  to  bed,  Aurora, 
half  undressed,  came  strolling  into  her  maidenly  bower  of 
temperate  green  and  white. 

A  vague  depression  of  spirits  had  overtaken  Aurora,  re- 
action, perhaps,  from  the  excitements  of  the  day,  and  she 
sought  her  friend  with  the  instinct  to  make  herself  feel  bet- 
ter by  talking  it  off. 


322  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

She  dropped  on  a  chair,  and  in  silence  continued  to  braid 
her  hair  for  the  night. 

"Isn't  he  the  nicest  fellow!"  began  Estelle,  setting  the 
keynote  for  joyous  confidences. 

'*  Is  n't  he  just !"  replied  Aurora.  ''I  want  him  to  have 
the  best  time  in  the  three  weeks  he  's  going  to  spend  here. 
We  've  got  to  show  him  all  the  beauties  of  Florence,  and 
then  I  want  him  to  know  all  our  friends.  We  must  have 
some  tea-parties  and  some  dinners.  I  want  it  to  be  just 
as  gay.  Who  is  there  I  ought  to  lay  myself  out  for,  if  not 
Tom  Bewick?" 

''I  quite  agree  with  you.     Let  's  plan." 

''No,  to-morrow  '11  do.  It  's  too  late.  I  'm  tired."  The 
motions  of  Aurora's  fingers  were  suspended  among  the 
strands  of  her  hair.  She  fell  into  a  muse.  ''Seeing  Tom" 
— she  came  out  of  it  again,  and  went  on  braiding — "has 
brought  back,  along  with  some  things  I  never  want  to  for- 
get, such  a  lot  of  things  I  don't  want  to  think  of!" 

"I  suppose  it  would." 

"His  sisters,  for  instance.  He  doesn't  look  a  bit  like 
them,  really — nasty  bugs,  godless,  gutless  pigs — but  yet  he 
brings  them  up  before  me.  Idell  rather  more  than  Cora, 
and  Idell  was  the  meanest  of  the  two,  and  her  husband  the 
miserablest,  sneakingest  cuss.  Oh,  how  I  hate  the  bunch 
of  them!  And  I  oughtn't,  you  know.  You  oughtn't  to 
go  on  hating  your  enemies  after  you  've  got  the  better  of 
them.  But  the  moment  I  think  of  that  trio,  Cora  Bewick— 
sour-bellied  old  maid! — and  Idell  Friebus,  and  her  rotten 
little  pea-green  husband — pin-headed  insect!  flap-eared 
fool ! — I  get  mad.  If  you  could  really  know,  Hat,  the  cold- 
heartedness  and  wicked-mindedness  of  those  people !  How 
they  ever  happened  in  Tom's  family  Goodness  only  knows. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  323 

And  such  a  fine  father !  The  Judge  was  as  good  as  any  of 
those  old  fellows  in  the  Bible,  I  do  believe.  That  patient, 
that  considerate,  and  that  just !  More  than  just ;  what  he 
did  was  more  than  just,  and  those  girls  of  his  simply 
couldn't  stand  it.  They  couldn't  stand  it,  after  they  had 
neglected  him  all  through  his  illness  so  that  it  was  a  scan- 
dal, that  he  should  treat  the  person  who  had  done  their 
daughters'  duty  for  them  the  same  as  he  treated  them, 
no  better  and  no  worse,  but  just  the  same.  The  things 
those  people  did  to  me,  Hat,  the  things  they  said  about 
me—" 

''I  know,  I  know;  you  've  told  me,"  said  Hattie,  sooth- 
ingly and  deterringly. 

"The  things  those  people  did  to  me,  and  the  things  they 
said  about  me," — Nell,  not  to  be  deterred,  repeated  in- 
tensely,— *'if  I  'd  ever  wanted  to  give  up  my  share,  those 
things  they  did  and  said  would  have  made  me  hold  on  like 
grim  death  just  to  spite  them.  Oh," — she  broke  off,  and 
flung  her  finished  braids  back  over  her  shoulders, — *'why 
do  I  let  myself  think  of  them  ?  I  grow  so  hot !  It  's  the 
sight  of  Tom  that  has  started  me  back  to  thinking  of  all 
that  excitement  and  disgustingness.  Dear  good  Tom,  who 
stood  by  me  like  a  trump!  I  do  wish,  Hat,  I  didn't  hate 
so  hard  when  I  hate.  We  've  taken  pride  in  my  famil3^ 
I  'm  afraid,  in  being  good  haters,  as  if  it  were  part  of  the 
same  trait  that  makes  you  loyal  and  true  to  your  friends. 
But  perhaps  it  's  a  mistake.  I  know  that  Gerald  said  once" 
— she  yielded  to  the  obscure  desire  to  hear  the  air  vibrate, 
as  it  had  not  done  for  some  time,  with  the  syllables  of  his 
name — ''Gerald  said  once,  when  we  were  talking  of  things, 
'We  must  forgive  everything,'  he  said;  'we  must  forgive 
happenings  the  same  as  we  must  people.'    And  Gerald, 


SU  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

you  know,  when  he  's  in  sober  earnest,  has  some  good 
ideas. ' ' 

''Talking  about  Gerald,"  Estelle  came  in  quickly,  glad 
of  a  change  from  the  other  subject,  *'did  Liwy  tell  you 
that  our  cook  met  Giovanna  at  the  market,  and  Gio- 
vanna  told  her  that  her  master  was  doing  finely;  that  he 
hadn't  yet  been  out  of  doors,  but  that  he  sat  at  the  open 
window  in  the  sunshine?     I  'd  been  meaning  to  ask  you." 

"Oh."  Aurora  quietly  took  it,  and  thought  it  over  a 
minute.  "No,  she  hadn't  told  me.  I  suppose  those  long 
stairs  would  keep  him  from  going  out  till  he  was  good  and 
strong.     Did  she  say  anything  else?" 

"Only  that  Giovanna  was  buying  a  chicken,  and  the  abbe, 
she  said,  was  still  staying  with  them." 

The  ladies  of  the  Hermitage  did  the  honors  of  Florence 
with  modest  pride  and  a  certain  glibness.  Before  the  early 
old  masters,  Aurora  said  to  Tom : 

"At  first  I  couldn't  stand  them.  I  guffawed  at  the 
idea  of  there  being  anything  to  admire  in  them.  Even 
now  I  can't  pretend  I  like  them;  but  I  keep  still  and  pray 
for  light.     Is  n't  that  the  beginning  of  polish  ? ' ' 

Tom  was  taken  to  make  calls.  Aurora  took  upon  herself 
to  explain  Florentine  society  to  him. 

"There  are  little  stories  about  most  everybody,"  she 
said,  "so  you  have  to  be  pretty  careful.  If  a  certain  Gen- 
eral is  present,  for  instance,  whom  I  may  have  a  chance  to 
point  out  to  you,  you  don't  want  to  talk  of  horses,  because 
his  fiery  steed  bolted  with  him  during  an  engagement  once 
and  his  enemies  caricatured  him  running  away.  Then  if 
a  certain  viscount  is  present,  whom  I  may  have  a  chance 
to  introduce  to  you,  you  don't  want  to  talk  of  ermine,  be- 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  325 

cause  that  little  animal  is  a  feature  in  his  coat  of  arms, 
and  his  coat  of  arms  along  with  his  title  of  nobility,  scan- 
dal says,  came  as  a  reward  from  a  royal  personage  for 
marrying  the  lady  who  was  his  first  wife.  So  you  '11  have 
to  look  out,  Tom,  or  you  may  be  called  upon  to  fight  a 
duel." 

The  most  splendid  dinner  that  could  be  planned  in  coun- 
cil with  Clotilde  and  the  cook  was  prepared  to  honor  the 
friend  from  home.  To  this  were  bidden  the  Fosses,  Au- 
rora's best  friends ;  the  Hunts,  her  next  best ;  Manlio,  whom 
she  wished  Tom  to  see  as  a  truly  beautiful  specimen  of 
Italian ;  and  Landini,  because  she  was  curious  to  know  what 
Tom  thought  of  him. 

Aurora  had  not  seen  the  latter  since  the  night  of  the 
veglione.  Finding  that  he  had  not  called  during  the  in- 
terval, she  had  been  glad  to  hope  that  his  suspected  mys- 
terious project  for  making  her  his  own  had  been  dropped. 
That  being  the  case,  she  was  not  at  all  averse  to  seeing  him. 
On  the  contrar3\ 

Charlie  Hunt  she  had  not  seen  since  the  variety-show. 
Learning  that  he  also  had  not  once  come  during  her  ab- 
sence, she  thought  that  this  admitted  of  some  simple  ex- 
planation which  he  would  give  on  the  night  of  the  dinner. 

Charlie,  receiving  the  invitation,  pondered  a  while  before 
accepting.  He  considered  himself  to  have  been  insulted, 
rather,  by  Mrs.  Hawthorne.  Still,  he  could  not  be  abso- 
lutely sure.  If,  anyhow,  she  did  not  know  that  he  knew  the 
black  crow  to  have  been  none  other  than  herself  there  would 
be  nothing  in  his  going  to  her  dinner-party  which  laid  him 
open  to  scorn.  And  he  felt  more  disposed  to  go  than  not. 
The  dinner  would  be  festive,  costly,  succulent.  Then  he  de- 
sired before  breaking  with  her — if  breach  there  must  be, 


S^e  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

which  would  depend  upon  the  subtlest  circumstances — to 
persuade  her  that  two  enormous  porcelain  jars  owned  by  a 
dealer  of  his  acquaintance  were  the  very  thing  needed  in 
that  bare-looking  ball-room  of  hers.  There  was  a  third  rea- 
son. A  lady  whose  friendship  had  latterly — since  the  night 
of  the  veglione,  in  fact — taken  on  the  glow  of  roses  and  the 
warmth  of  wine,  had  taken  it  into  her  charming  head  to  be 
jealous,  fantastically,  of  Mrs.  Hawthorne.  Charlie,  whose 
manly  vanity  his  good  fortune  had,  not  unnaturally,  rein- 
forced; Charlie,  who  if  he  were  loved  much  must  always 
love  less  than  the  other,  felt  a  certain  stimulation  in  exhibi- 
tions of  jealousy  with  regard  to  himself.  He  thought  well 
of  the  results  of  saying,  "I  cannot  come  this  evening,  cara, 
I  am  dining  at  the  Hawthorne's."  So  he  accepted  Au- 
rora's invitation. 

The  dinner  was  superlative,  but  it  was  written  he  should 
leave  the  house  finally  in  a  bad  humor.  The  feasted  guest 
was  a  big  Western  American,  of  the  immensely  rich  and 
not  very  interesting  type,  whom  he  had  seen  once  or  twice 
at  the  bank.  Aurora's  fond  esteem  for  this  man  was  open 
and  shameless.  Whether  he  were  a  ''has  been,"  an  *'is," 
or  a  ''to  be,"  Charlie  could  not  determine,  but  only  in  the 
character  of  suitor  could  he  see  him  in  the  picture. 

The  dark  face  of  Landini,  his  Chief,  across  the  dinner 
table,  when  his  eyes  sought  it  was  indecipherable  to  him; 
but,  shut  as  it  was,  he  was  reminded  by  it,  not  to  the  im- 
provement of  his  spirits,  of  a  little  personal  hope,  a  just 
and  rational  hope,  which  might  have  to  be  relinquished. 
After  dinner  he  got  his  hostess  into  a  quiet  corner  for  a  chat. 

"Where  's  Gerald?"  pure  curiosity  made  him  ask,  with 
that  impertinence  which  his  friends  were  accustomed  to 
and  took  lightly,  because  curiosity  and  impertinence  were 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  Si^T 

part  and  parcel  of  Charlie,  and  if  you  cared  sufficiently 
for  his  attractive  smoothness  and  flashing  smile  to  wish 
them  near  you,  you  must  put  up  with  the  bad  breeding 
underlying  his  good  manners.  "Where  's  Gerald?"  he 
asked  familiarly. 

"Gerald  isn't  well  enough  yet  to  be  out,"  Aurora  an- 
swered him,  with  imperfect  candor.  "You  didn't  know 
he  'd  been  ill  ?  Why,  how  funny !  He  's  been  having  what 
you  call  here  a  'fluxion  of  the  chest.'  " 

This  ignorance  of  Charlie's  comforted  her  by  proving 
that  the  news  of  her  nursing  Gerald  had  not  spread  over 
the  town  like  wildfire,  as  she  had  been  warned  it  would. 
Florence  was  not  so  bad  or  nimble  a  gossip  as  she  had 
feared. 

"I  was  as  nice  to  Charlie  Hunt  that  last  evening  as  ever 
in  my  life,"  she  afterward  declared,  "and  I  thought  he 
seemed  all  right." 

When  he  spoke  of  the  precious  porcelain  jars,  however, 
she  did  cut  short  his  appetizing  description  with: 

"Don't  speak  of  it.  I  daresn't,  Charlie.  I  've  been  lec- 
tured so  much  for  extravagance,  I  daresn't  buy  a  tooth- 
pick. If  these  jars  j^ou  speak  of  cost  nine  francs  instead 
of  nine  hundred,  I  could  n  't,  I  tell  you.  I  guess  Florence 
has  got  all  she  's  going  to  out  of  me.  I  've  turned  over  a 
new  leaf." 

Aurora  had  all  evening  been  so  entirely  her  kind  and 
jolly  self  that  Charlie  had  almost  forgotten  the  black  crow. 
At  this  check,  and  the  barren  prospect  opening  out  beyond, 
he  remembered  it,  and  felt  a  vicious  little  desire  to  pay 
her  back  for  the  pin  she  had  stuck  into  him  under,  as  she 
idiotically  supposed,  an  impenetrable  disguise.  He  went 
away,  as  has  been  said,  in  a  bad  humor. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  loveliness  of  Florence  at  this  point  of  the  year, 
while  inspiring  poets,  made  the  rest  feel  helpless 
before  the  task  of  finding  words  for  it.  Even  Au- 
rora, who  could  not  be  called  contemplative,  or  highly  sus- 
ceptible to  influences  of  form  and  color,  was  heard  to  heave 
an  occasional  great  sigh,  so  was  her  heart  oppressed,  she 
could  not  think  why,  during  their  drives  among  the  hills 
around  Florence,  by  the  sight  of  the  spring  flowers, — ^tulips, 
narcissi,  fleur-de-lys,  imagine  it,  growing  wild,  as  if  gold 
pieces  should  lie  scattered  in  the  road  for  passers  to  pick 
up! — and  by  the  sight  of  the  warm  and  tender  tones  of 
the  sky,  and  by  the  silver  sparks  of  windows  flashing  back 
the  sun  where  the  hazy  city  houses  huddled  around  the 
Duomo's  brown  head  and  shoulders,  majestically  lifted 
above  them. 

It  was  something  in  the  air,  Aurora  thought,  which 
forced  her  to  sigh  with  that  half -sweet  oppression  and  fa- 
tigue: the  air  was  fragrant  with  a  scent  which  seemed  to 
her  upon  sniffing  it  analytically  to  be  the  breath  of  hya- 
cinths; and  the  air  was  warm,  it  *'let  her  down,*'  she  said. 

Why,  instead  of  delicious  contentment,  is  a  sort  of  mel- 
ancholy, of  unrest,  created  in  us  by  the  beauty  of  spring, 
will  somebody  tell? 

Aurora,  when  she  thought  she  could  do  it  without  at- 
tracting the  notice  of  the  other  two,  would  slip  from  their 
presence  sometimes,  so  as  to  have  a  few  minutes  by  her- 

328 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  329 

self  and  stop  pretending  to  be  so  everlastingly  light  of 
heart.  For  nothing  in  the  world  would  she  have  had  Tom 
know  but  that  his  visit  made  her  happy  to  the  point  of  for- 
getting every  subject  of  care  or  annoyance. 

Eigtelle,  too,  she  would  have  preferred  to  deceive.  She 
did  her  best,  and  for  hours  at  a  time  appeared  serene  and 
merry.  During  these  periods  she  sometimes  did  actually 
lose  the  sense  of  anxious  suspense;  but  it  kept  itself  alive 
as  an  undercurrent  to  her  laughter. 

When  she  saw  how  well  Tom  and  Estelle  got  along  to- 
gether, she  became  less  timid  about  arranging  little  ab- 
sences from  them;  she  even — such  a  common  feminine 
mind  had  Aurora — saw  in  the  congeniality  which  permitted 
them  to  remain  for  half  an  hour  in  each  other's  company 
without  boredom  the  foundation  of  a  dream,  dim  and  dis- 
tant, it  is  true — the  dream  of  seeing  Estelle  one  day  settled 
in  a  fine  home  of  her  own.  She  feared,  though,  there  might 
be  bridges  to  cross  before  that  event.  She  dreaded  the 
bridges.  She  wished  Tom  might  be  diverted  from  what 
she  feared  was  his  purpose.  How  satisfactory,  if  Estelle 
might  prove  the  diversion.  Estelle  would  really  have 
suited  Tom  much  better  than  the  person  of,  she  feared,  his 
actual  choice. 

Of  all  this  she  was  somewhat  disconnectedly  thinking 
when  she  ran  away  from  them  one  evening  after  dinner, 
leaving  him  still  at  the  table  smoking  his  cigar,  while 
Estelle  hunted  up  in  a  guide-book  for  his  benefit  some  lit- 
tle matter  of  altitudes.  A  flash  of  good  sense  showed  her 
the  previousness  of  her  calculations,  and  she  mentally  with- 
drew her  hand  from  meddling.  Fate  would  take  its  own 
way,  anyhow. 

She  had  gone  up-stairs  with  the  excuse  of  wanting  a  fan. 


330  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

Her  fan  had  easily  been  found,  but  instead  of  returning  to 
her  guests,  *'They  won't  miss  me  if  I  do  stay  away  for 
ten  minutes, ' '  she  said,  and  walked  to  the  end  of  the  broad 
hallway,  out  through  the  door  that  stood  open  on  to  the 
portico  roof — once  glassed  over  for  a  party  and  dedicated 
to  Flirtation. 

How  long  ago  that  seemed!  Here  Gerald,  a  quite  new 
acquaintance,  had  told  her  about  Manlio  and  Brenda. 
Poor  young  things,  so  unhappy  then,  and  now  exultant. 
Brenda  was  just  back  from  America.  The  wedding  was 
set  for  the  ninth  of  May.     Only  eight  days  more  to  wait. 

As  Aurora,  leaning  over  the  balustrade  and  letting  her 
eyes  rest  on  the  garden,  thought  of  their  assured  and  per- 
fect happiness,  she  remembered  a  gross  fly  in  the  ointment. 
She  had  been  told  that  Brenda  would  have  to  agree  to 
bring  up  her  children  in  the  Catholic  church.  The  thing 
had  seemed  to  Aurora  appalling.  Upon  her  dropping  some 
hint  of  her  sentiment  to  the  caller  who  had  communicated 
the  fact,  she  had  been  further  told  that  very  likely  Brenda 
too  would  in  time  become  a  Catholic — as  if  that  made  it 
any  better.  A  descendant  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  to  be- 
come a  Roman  Catholic !  Any  one  but  a  heathen  to  change 
his  religion !  .  .  . 

The  figure  of  Abbe  Johns  rose  before  her  mind.  She  re- 
frained from  judgment  in  his  case.  His  case,  for  intan- 
gible reasons,  seemed  separate  and  different.  But  fear,  as 
of  formless  bugaboos  in  the  dark,  burned  in  her  heart  at 
the  idea  of  his  influence  perhaps  being  able,  creepily,  stealth- 
ily, to  convert  Gerald. 

She  turned  her  face  upward  to  the  sky  of  May  and  sent 
forth  a  little  prayer  into  the  crystal  clearness  of  the  space 
lying  between  her  and  the  ear  which  she  conceived  of  as 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  331 

receiving  it,  the  ear  of  a  Baptist  God,  as  opposed  to  a 
Roman  Catholic  God  surrounded  by  saints  and  candles  and 
incense  and  tin  flowers. 

As  she  did  this  a  high  pink  cloud  caught  her  eye.  Em- 
bers of  sunset  were  glowing  over  the  river  at  the  other  side 
of  the  house.  The  sight  of  the  pink  cloud,  so  pretty  and 
far  away,  comforted  Aurora  like  a  good  omen.  She  felt 
better  and,  her  reverie  borrowing  a  ray  from  the  cloud, 
went  on  to  rejoice  in  the  pleasantness  of  the  garden  which 
she  might  for  the  time  being  call  hers.  So  different  from 
the  gardens  at  home,  but  in  its  set  way  how  attractive  it 
was,  how  suited  to  people  with  leisure,  and  a  certain  sta- 
bility of  taste,  and  a  liking  for  privacy ! 

"Why,  in  that  garden — which  was  n  't  very  large,  either — 
you  could  almost  get  lost  among  narrow  paths  bordered  with 
shrubs.  Even  if  the  wide  wrought-iron  front-gate  were 
open,  and  the  carriage-gate  at  the  side  open  as  at  this 
moment,  you  could  be  just  as  much  shut  off  from  outside 
as  in  your  own  room,  if  you  took  your  sewing  or  your  book 
to  that  little  open  air  round  with  walls  of  smooth-trimmed 
laurel,  and  a  stone  table  in  the  middle,  and  stone  seats. 

Old  Achille  down  there,  still  busy  watering, — Achille  who 
belonged  to  the  garden  and  was  hired  along  with  it,  was  a 
regular  artist,  thought  Aurora.  The  great  oval  bed  in 
front  of  the  house  was  at  this  season  like  a  huge  bouquet, 
all  arranged  in  a  beautiful  pattern.  Then  he  had  edged 
every  path  with  a  band  of  pansies  just  inside  the  band  of 
ivy  overrunning  the  mossy  border  stones — the  sweetest 
thing.  His  pride  was  pansies,  he  had  planted  them  every- 
where, the  finest  she  had  ever  seen.  He  had  taken  a  prize 
once  at  a  horticultural  show,  for  his  pansies. 

The  light  died  out  of  the  pink  cloud,  and  Aurora's  pleas- 


332  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

ure  in  her  garden  gradually  died  out  too,  while  the  quality 
of  irony  in  her  many  blessings  smote  her.  For  what  is  the 
use  of  having  everything  money  can  buy  or  the  bounty  of 
spring  afford  if  you  at  the  same  time  are  troubled  with  a 
toothache?  All  this,  so  grand  in  itself,  was  like  a  good 
gift  wasted,  as  long  as  she  was  in  a  state  of  quarrel  with 
her  friend.  It  was  full  two  weeks  since  their  exchange 
of  letters.  Two  weeks  of  absolute  silence.  Could  it  be 
possible  that  she  should  never  see  or  hear  from  Gerald 
again  ? 

No,  it  could  not,  she  said.  It  was  part  of  having  faith  in 
him  to  deny  the  possibility  of  his  remaining  furious  for- 
ever at  her  hateful  letter.  No,  she  would  not  believe  it 
of  him;  she  thought  better  of  him.  She  was  much  mis- 
taken if  he  could  be  so  mean.  She  would  be  willing  to 
bet- 
There,  in  fact,  he  was,  at  this  very  moment,  entering 
the  carriage-gate. 

After  one  mad  throb  of  incredulous  exultation,  Aurora's 
thoughts  and  feelings  were  for  a  long  minute  limited  to  an 
intense  and  immobile  watchfulness.  He  walked  over  the 
gravel  with  his  eyes  on  the  door  under  the  portico.  You 
would  have  thought  his  purpose  set,  and  that  he  would  not 
pause  until  he  had  rung  the  bell. 

But  you  would  have  thought  wrong.  Half-way  between 
the  gate  and  the  house  he  stood  still  and  looked  at  the 
ground.  He  was  holding  the  slender  cane  one  knew  so 
well  like  a  weapon  of  defense,  as  if  ready  to  make  a  reso- 
lute slash  with  it  to  vindicate  his  irresolution. 

After  a  moment  he  turned,  grinding  his  heel  into  the 
earth.  It  was  then  that  a  voice  called  out  above  him, 
''HeUo,  Gerald !'' 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  333 

He  turned  again  and  removed  his  straw  hat.  lie  and 
the  lady  leaning  from  the  terrace  looked  at  each  other  for 
the  space  of  a  few  heart-beats  with  mechanical,  constrained 
smiles.     Then  she  asked: 

**  Are  n't  you  going  to  come  in?'^ 

Instead  of  making  the  obvious  answer  and  setting  about 
the  obvious  thing,  he  appeared  to  be  debating  the  point 
within  himself.     At  the  end  of  his  hesitation,  he  asked : 

''Could  I  prevail  upon  you  to  give  me  five  minutes  in 
the  garden?'' 

"Why,  certainly,"  answered  Aurora,  appreciating  the 
fact  that  Estelle  would  be  superfluous  at  the  peace-making 
that  must  follow. 

She  went  very  lightly  down  the  stairs.  She  could  hear 
Estelle 's  and  Tom's  voices  still  in  the  dining-room.  In- 
stead of  going  out  by  the  usual  door,  too  near  to  their  sharp 
ears,  she  turned  with  soft  foot  into  the  big  ball-room  and 
passed  out  through  that. 

The  great  oval  mound  of  flowers  spread  its  odoriferous 
carpet  before  the  steps  leading  down  from  the  house.  She 
turned  her  back  upon  it  and  followed  a  path  bordered  with 
pansies  and  ivy  till  Gerald  saw  her  and  came  to  take  her 
hand,  saying: 

''How  good  of  you!" 

"Well,"  she  sighed,  put  by  the  bliss  of  her  relief  into 
a  mood  of  splendid  carelessness  as  to  how  she,  for  her  part, 
should  carry  off  the  situation, — looking  after  her  dignity 
and  all  that.  "How  jolly  this  is!  And  you  're  all  right 
again,  Gerald.  You  're  well  enough  to  walk  on  your  legs 
and  come  and  tell  me  so.  Yes,  you  're  looking  quite  your- 
self again.  Well," — she  sighed  again  heartily, — "it  's 
good  for  sore  eyes  to  see  you.     You  're  sure  now  it  's  all 


334  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

right  for  you  to  be  out  of  doors  after  sunset?  Had  n't  we 
better  go  in  ? " 

''This  air  is  like  a  warm  bath.  I  must  not  keep  you 
long,  anyhow/' 

"Oh,  I  haven't  got  a  thing  to  do,"  she  precipitately 
assured  him.  ' '  Come,  we  '11  walk  up  and  down  the  path, — 
hadn't  we  better? — so  as  not  to  be  standing  still.  Go 
ahead,  now;  tell  me  all  about  yourself.  How  do  you  feel? 
Have  you  got  entirely  rid  of  your  cough?  And  the  stitch 
in  your  side?" 

He  would  only  speak  to  answer,  she  soon  found ;  the  mo- 
ment she  stopped  talking  silence  fell.  Had  he  nothing  to 
say  to  her,  then?  Or  did  he  find  it  difficult  somehow  to 
talk  ?  She  was  so  determined  to  make  the  atmosphere  cozy, 
friendly,  happy — make  the  atmosphere  as  it  had  used  to  be 
between  them — so  determined,  that  she  jabbered  on  like  a 
magpie,  like  a  mill,  about  this,  that,  and  the  other,  sprin- 
kling in  little  jokes  in  her  own  manner,  and  little  stories 
in  her  own  taste,  accompanied  by  her  rich — on  this  occa- 
sion slightly  nervous  gurgle. 

"Aurora  dear,"  he  said  at  last,  with  an  effect  of  mourn- 
ful patience  as  much  as  of  protest,  "what  makes  you?  I 
am  here  to  beg  your  forgiveness,  and  you  put  me  off  with 
what  Mrs.  Moriarty  said  to  Mrs.  0  'Flynn.  Do  you  call  it 
kind?" 

A  knot  tied  itself  in  Aurora's  throat,  which  she  could  not 
loosen  so  as  to  go  on.  If  she  had  tried  to  speak  she  would 
have  betrayed  the  fact  that  those  simple  words  had,  like  a 
pump,  fetched  the  tears  up  from  her  heart  into  her  throat. 
He  had  his  chance  now  to  do  all  the  talking. 

"Couldn't  we  sit  down  somewhere  for  a  minute? 
Should  you  mind?"    His  gesture  vaguely  designated  the 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  335 

green  inclosure,  where  the  stone  table  stood,  pale  among 
the  dark  laurels. 

But  when  they  were  seated,  he  only  pressed  his  hands 
into  his  eye-sockets  and  kept  them  there. 

"I  am  ridiculous!"  he  muttered  and  shook  himself 
straight.  After  an  ineffectual,  suffocated  attempt  to  begin, 
*'I  am  ridiculous!"  he  said  again,  and  without  further  con- 
cession to  weakness  started  in:  ''I  ought  to  have  written 
you,  Aurora.  But  I  had  seemed  to  be  so  unfortunate  in 
writing  I  did  not  dare  to  try  it  again.  Heaven  knows  what 
I  wrote.  I  don't;  but  it  must  have  been  a  prodigy  of  cad- 
dishness  to  offend  you  so  deeply.  It  doesn't  do  much  good 
to  say  I  am  sorry. ' ' 

''Your  letter  was  all  right,"  broke  in  Aurora.  "I  only 
did  n  't  understand  at  first.  Afterwards  I  did.  I  tell  you, 
that  letter  was  all  right. ^* 

' '  It  was  written  in  a  mood — a  perplexity,  a  despair,  you 
have  no  means  of  understanding,  dear  Aurora.  When  your 
answer  showed  me  what  I  had  done,  I  could  have  cut  my 
throat,  but  I  could  not  have  come  to  tell  you  I  was  not  the 
monster  of  ingratitude  I  appeared  to  be.  Not  that  a  man 
can't  get  out  of  bed,  if  there  is  reason  enough,  and  take 
himself  somehow  where  he  wants  to  be,  but  because  of  a 
sick  man's  unreasonable  nerves,  which  can  start  him  raving 
and  make  him  a  thing  to  laugh  at.  I  had  the  common  sense, 
thank  Heaven !  to  see  that  I  must  wait.  Then,  as  the  days 
passed,  it  all  quieted  down.  Vincent  was  with  me,  a  tran- 
quilizing  neighborhood. 

"It  seemed  finally  as  if  it  might  be  almost  better  to  let 
things  rest  as  they  were,  to  let  that  be  the  way  of  separating 
from  you.  I  had  almost  made  up  my  mind  to  do  it,  Aurora. 
Vincent  has  had  me  out  for  various  airings,  I  have  gone  on 


336  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

several  walks  alone,  but  till  to-day  I  avoided  to  take  the 
road  toward  this  house.  I  am  so  used  to  pain  that  I  've 
grown  stoical,  you  know,  Aurora.  I  can  stand  any  pain. 
I  shut  my  teeth  and  say,  'It  will  have  to  stop  some  time.' 
But  all  at  once  it  became  too  strong  for  me — not  the  pain, 
or  the  wish  to  see  you,  but  the  feeling  that  I  could  not  bear 
to  have  you  thinking  me  ungrateful.  I,  who  hate  ingrati- 
tude as  the  blackest  thing  in  the  wide  world,  to  pass  with 
you,  with  you,  for  an  ungrateful  beast ! ' ' 

''Don't!  don't,  Gerald!"  Aurora  hushed  him.  "I  can't 
let  you  talk  like  that.  You  know  you  could  n't  be  ungrate- 
ful, nor  I  could  n't  think  it  of  you." 

"No,  I  'm  not  ungrateful.  I  'm  not,  dear,"  he  caress- 
ingly asseverated,  and  closing  her  two  hands  between  his 
treasured  them  against  his  cheek.  ' '  I  want  you  to  be  alto- 
gether sure  of  it.  If  I  did  not  recognize  the  enormity  of 
my  debt  to  you,  Aurora,  what  a  clod  I  must  be!  Not, 
mind  you,  because,  it  is  just  possible  to  think,  I  owe  you 
my  life.  Not  that,  but  because  you  were  so  kind.  Be- 
cause you  were  so  kind,  so  kind — "  he  reiterated  feel- 
ingly, "and  I  a  troublesome,  cantankerous,  distinctly  un- 
appetizing object  in  his  helpless  bed.  Don't  think  there 
was  one  touch  or  gesture  of  these  dear  hands  that  take  away 
headaches  that  I  do  not  remember  with  gratitude." 

"There  was  nothing  to  be  grateful  for,  nothing  at  all," 
insisted  Aurora. 

"And  so  when  I  wrote  you  in  that  brutal  manner, 
dear,—" 

' '  That  letter  was  all  right, ' '  Aurora  vigorously  snatched 
away  from  him  the  turn  to  talk,  in  order  to  defend  him  from 
this  misery  of  compunction.  ' '  It  was  prompted  by  the  most 
gentlemanly  feelings,  by  real  unselfishness  and  considera- 


AUROKA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  387 

tion  for  me.  You  didn't  want  me  talked  about  on  your 
account,  and  you  put  it  as  delicately  as  possible.  Only  I 
was  a  fool;  I  went  olf  the  handle,  and  wrote  while  I  was 
mad  and  hurt  and  wanted  to  hurt  back.  I^ut,  bless  you, 
I  understand  it  all  perfectly  now.  You  need  n  't  say  an- 
other word.  I  understand  the  letter,  Gerald,  and  I  under- 
stand you." 

'*I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  letting  go  her  hands  and  draw- 
ing a  little  apart,  as  if  the  most  complete  misunderstanding, 
after  all,  separated  them, — ''I  am  afraid  you  do  not  en- 
tirely. But  this  much  at  least  is  clear  to  you,  isn't  it, 
dear,  that  whatever  I  may  be,  I  am  not  ungrateful  ?  What- 
ever I  may  do,  you  are  to  remember  that  I  could  n  't  be 
ungrateful  to  you,  Aurora.  If  I  should  seem  to  be  behav- 
ing ever  so,  ever  so  shabbily,  still  you  must  know  that  behind 
it,  under  it,  I  am  the  very  contrary  of  ungrateful."  He 
pressed  his  hands  to  his  eyes  again,  and  was  still  for  a 
minute,  before  announcing,  * '  I  shall  not  come  to  see  you  for 
a  long  time.'^ 

The  astonished  and  acute  attention  of  her  whole  being 
was  indefinably  expressed  by  the  silence  in  which  she  now 
listened. 

'*I  am  going  to  keep  away  from  you,"  he  went  on,  ''till  I 
feel  out  of  danger. ' ' 

"Why,  what  's  the  matter  now?"  she  asked,  with  the 
vehemence  of  her  surprise  and  disappointment. 

"A  trifle,  woman  dear.  Oh,  Lord,  I  see  I  shall  have  to 
go  into  it!  Haven't  you  the  imagination  to  see,  you  un- 
accountable person,  how  an  unhappy  mortal  might  be 
affected  by  such  circumstances  as  destiny  so  lately  prepared 
for  your  poor  servant's  trying?  Day  by  day,  night  after 
night,  that  insidious  kindness,  that  penetrating  gentleness. 


338  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

that  stupefying  atmosphere  of  a  woman's  care  and  sympa- 
thy. .  .  .  Didn't  you  tell  me  once  yourself — "  Gerald's 
voice  stiffened,  and  he  pulled  himself  up  again,  discarding 
weakness, —  "Didn't  you  once  tell  me  yourself — in  your 
impossible  English,  almost  as  bad  as  mine — that  a  sick  man 
is  '  liable  to  fall  in  love  with  his  nurse  ? '  And,  dear  girl,  I 
will  not  do  it.  I  categorically  refuse.  It  is  too  horrible. 
I  have  done  with  all  that.  I  have  just  managed  to  creep 
up  on  to  the  dry  sand,  and  you  ask  me  to  embark  again  on 
those  same  waters.  I  will  not  do  it.  It  is  finished.  That 
slavery!  that  unrest!  and  fever!  and  jealousy!  No,  not 
again.  I  have  served  my  sentence.  Too  many  times  I  have 
waked  in  the  black  of  night  and  waited  for  daylight,  wish- 
ing I  had  been  dust  for  a  hundred  years.  I  know  now  that 
in  order  to  have  a  little  peace  a  person  must  not  want  any- 
thing. That  is  the  price.  We  mustn't  want  anything, 
Aurora.  We  mustn't  want  anything,  we  mustn't  mind 
anything,  we  must  n  't  care  about  anything,  we  must  submit 
to  everything ! ' '  This  counsel  of  perfection  came  from 
Gerald  almost  in  a  sob.  ''We  sha'n't  be  happy  like  that, 
naturally,  but  we  sha'n't  be  too  wretched  for  expression, 
either.  It  's  the  lesson  of  life.  I  have  learned  it,  and  I 
will  not  expose  myself  to  the  old  chances  again.  'He  who 
loves  for  the  first  time  is  a  god,'  says  the  poet,  'but  he  who 
loves  for  the  second  time  is  a  fool,'  he  goes  on  to  say.  And 
so,  Aurora — " 

' '  You  make  me  laugh ! ' '  exclaimed  Aurora  in  a  snort  of 
simple  scorn. 

"And  so,  Aurora,  I  am  going  to  keep  away  from  you  for 
— I  am  not  at  the  present  moment  quite  able  to  say  how 
long." 

"You  're  going  to  do  nothing  of  the  sort!     There  now!" 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  339 

burst  from  Aurora.  ''I  'm  not  going  to  permit  anj^  such 
foolishness."  She  firmly  proceeded  to  pile  up  a  barricade 
against  his  preposterous  intention.  "Now,  Gerald,  you  pay 
attention  to  what  I  say,  child.  Can't  you  see  for  yourself, 
now  you  Ve  put  it  into  words,  what  nonsense  all  this  is? 
You  could  no  more,  in  your  sane  and  waking  moments,  be 
sentimentally  in  love  with  me,  and  you  know  it,  than,  I 
guess,  I  could  with  you,  fond  of  you  as  I  am.  No,  that 
isn't  putting  it  strongly  enough,"  she  gallantly  amended; 
*'you  couldn't  do  it,  it  stands  to  reason,  even  so  easily 
as  I  could.  What  you  felt  was  just  the  result  of  you  being 
so  weak,  all  full  of  fever  dreams  and  delusions.  And  you 
still  believe  in  it  a  little  because  you  are  n  't  yet  good  and 
strong.  I  thought  you  were,  just  at  first,  because  you  come 
so  near  looking  it.  But  I  know  that  condition.  After  a 
sickness  you  plump  up,  you  get  back  your  color,  and  all  the 
while  you  can  be  so  weak  you  could  burst  out  crying  if  any 
one  pointed  a  finger  at  you.  You  're  trembling  with  nerv- 
ousness this  minute.  You  're  all  sunk  together,  as  if  your 
backbone  couldn't  hold  you  up.  It  's  because  the  weak- 
ness of  your  illness  is  still  on  you,  as  anybody  could  see. 
Now  you  listen  to  what  I  've  got  to  say.  The  wisest  thing 
you  can  do,  young  man,  instead  of  keeping  away  and  having 
ideas  and  waiting  till  these  gradually  wear  off — the  best 
thing  you  can  do,  I  say,  is  to  stay  right  at  my  side  and  get 
sobered  up  by  contact  with  things  as  they  actually  are. 
Not  only  the  best  thing,  but  a  lot  fairer  to  me,  doesn't  it 
seem  so  to  you?  How  do  you  think  I  like  to  have  you  go 
kiting  off  the  moment  I  Ve  got  you  back  again?  When 
I  've  missed  you  so !  Now,  Geraldino,  rely  on  Auroretta. 
Let  her  manage  this  case.  Don't  you  be  afraid;  she  '11  cure 
you  in  two  frisks." 


340  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

^*It  just  might  be,  you  know,  that  you  were  right,'*  said 
Gerald,  dubiously,  with  the  modesty  of  tone  that  would 
beseem  a  girl  after  a  bucket  of  cold  water  had  quelled  her 
hysterics.  "The  truth  is  you  do  not  appear  to  me  this 
evening  at  all  as  I  have  been  carrying  you  in  my  remem- 
brance." 

Aurora  laughed  and  reinforced  her  expression  of  jolly 
matter-of-factness,  looking  into  his  eyes  with  eyes  of  sana- 
tive fun. 

He  looked  back  at  her  with  meditative  scrutiny,  one  eye- 
brow raised  a  little  above  the  other. 

She  had  reigned  in  his  thoughts  very  largely  in  her 
appearance  of  his  nurse,  with  her  soft,  loose  robes,  the  blue 
of  pensive  twilights,  her  fair  hair  in  easy-feeling  braids,  her 
white  hands  bare  of  ornaments.  She  sat  near  him  now  in  a 
snug  satin  dinner-dress  full  of  whalebones  and  hooks  and 
eyes.  It  had  elbow  sleeves  terminating  in  full  frills  of 
Duchess  lace ;  a  square-cut  neck,  likewise  be-laced,  framing 
an  open  space  in  part  obscured  again  by  a  jeweled 
medallion  on  a  gold  chain.  She  had  on  rings  and  brace- 
lets, a  bow-knot  in  her  hair.  She  had  in  fact  * '  dressed  up ' ' 
for  Tom  Bewick,  wishing  him  to  see  with  his  eyes  what 
good  she  got  out  of  the  fortune  with  whose  origin  he  was 
acquainted. 

'  ^  Gracious  goodness ! ' '  She  bounced  to  her  feet.  ' '  Here 
I  was  forgetting !  Gerald, ' '  she  said  in  haste,  "  I  'm  sorry, 
but  we  '11  have  to  go  indoors.  They  '11  be  wondering  where 
I  am,  and  starting  the  hunt  for  me. ' ' 

''They?    You  have  guests?" 

*'Only  one.  Come  in,  Gerald.  I  want  you  to  meet  him. 
You  've  heard  me  speak  of  Judge  Bewick  in  Denver,  where 
I  lived  so  long.     Well,  this  is  his  son.  Doctor  Thomas  Be- 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  341 

wick.  He  's  in  Florence  just  for  a  visit.  It  's  a  wonder, 
come  to  think  of  it,  that  you  haven't  heard  of  his  being 
here.  We  've  been  going  everywhere  and  seeing  everything 
and  giving  dinner-parties.  Well,  never  tell  me  again  that 
news  spreads  so  fast  in  Florence !  Come  on.  I  want  you 
to  know  each  other.     You  '11  be  sure  to  like  him." 

*'I  don't  think  I  will.  I  mean  that  I  don't  think  I  will 
go  into  the  house  with  you,  Aurora. ' ' 

"Now,  Gerald,"  she  said  in  a  warning  voice,  at  which 
black  clouds  of  impending  displeasure  loomed  over  the 
horizon,  **this  isn't  the  way  to  begin.  Don't  be  odd  and 
trying.  I  should  feel  hurt,  now  truly,  if  I  had  to  think  your 
regard  for  me  wasn't  equal  to  doing  such  a  little  thing  for 
me  as  this.  Tom  's  one  of  my  very  best  friends,  and  he  's 
heard  us  talk  so  much  of  j^ou.  He  's  seen  your  painting 
of  me.  I  do  want  you  to  know  him,  and  I  want  him  to 
know  you.  Then,  too,  Gerald  dear,  and  this  is  the  main 
reason,  I  want  you  to  get  good  and  rested,  and  to  take  a 
little  wine  before  you  start  for  home.  Though  you  say  the 
air  is  like  a  warm  bath,  your  hands  are  cold,  I  notice." 

Too  tired  from  the  emotions  of  the  evening  to  make  any 
valid  resistance,  emptied  in  fact  of  all  feeling  except  a  flat 
sort  of  bewilderment,  Gerald  followed,  like  a  little  boy  in 
fear  of  rough-handling  from  his  so  much  bigger  nurse. 

They  found  Estelle  and  Tom  in  the  parlor. 

*' Well,  I  was  wondering  what  had  become  of  you !"  cried 
Estelle  as  Aurora  appeared  in  the  doorway,  and  behind  her 
shoulder  the  shadowy,  unexpected  face  of  Gerald. 

*'Tom,"  said  Aurora,  ''this  is  my  friend  Mr.  Fane  that 
you  Ve  heard  us  talk  so  much  about,  the  painter,  you 
know,  who  painted  that  picture  of  me  up  there.  And  this 
is  Doctor  Bewick,  Gerald,  to  whom  I  am  under  a  thousand 


342  AURORA  THE  MAGKIFICENT 

obligations,  besides  the  obligation  of  his  having  probably 
saved  my  life  out  in  Denver,  not  so  many  years  ago,  when  I 
was  dangerously  ill. ' ' 

Aurora  was  luminous  with  gladness.  Aurora  was  so  glad 
that  she  had  not  the  concentration  or  the  decency  to  attempt 
to  hide  it.  She  did  not  know  of  the  flagrant  betrayal  of 
her  feelings;  she  was  not  guarding  against  it,  because  her 
delight  itself  absorbed  all  her  powers  of  thought.  She  stood 
there,  a  monument  unveiled.  And  all  the  reason  for  it  that 
one  could  see  was  that  pindling,  hollow-eyed  young  fellow 
who  had  entered  the  room  in  her  wake. 

Those  who  have  not  quarreled  with  a  loved  one,  and 
known  the  pain  of  the  fear  that  he  may  be  lost  to  them, 
will  surely  never  know  the  keenest  joy.  It  takes  the  escape, 
the  contrast,  to  make  happiness  shine  out  as  brightly  as  it  is 
capable  of  doing. 

The  two  men,  after  conversation  had  engaged  between 
them,  promoted  and  helped  along  by  the  greater  lingual 
readiness  of  the  ladies,  observed  each  other.  This  they  did 
indirectly  and  as  if  doing  nothing  of  the  kind.  But  Estelle, 
as  profoundly  uneasy  as  if  she  had  foreseen  already  the  fate 
of  the  fat  to  end  in  the  fire,  was  aware  of  it.  She  noted 
in  Gerald's  stiffly  adjusted  face  the  unself -conscious  eye- 
brows, formidably  different  one  from  the  other;  she  noted 
how  Doctor  Tom,  sturdy  and  self-collected  as  he  was,  kept 
knocking  the  ashes  of  his  cigar  into  an  inkstand  full  of  ink. 

It  struck  her  whimsically  that  she  had  seen  before  some- 
thing kindred  to  what  was  taking  place  under  her  eyes: 
in  a  barnyard  at  home,  two  crimson-helmeted  champions, 
with  neck-feathers  slightly  risen  on  end,  standing  opposed, 
ocularly  taking  each  other's  measure. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  Brenda  who  came  back  from  AmericaTwas  not 
quite  the  one  who  had  gone  there.  Gerald  saw  it 
in  the  first  instant.  She  had  gained  in  definite- 
ness,  assurance,  even  in  beauty.  But  a  silver  haze,  a  fairy 
bloom,  an  aureole,  was  mysteriously  departed  from  her. 
She  had  left  her  teens  behind. 

Yet  in  her  stainless  white,  her  bridal  veil,  a  slender 
coronal  of  orange  blossoms  on  her  dark  hair,  and  the  light 
of  love  in  her  dark  eyes,  how  wonderful  she  was!  That 
Manlio,  pale  as  a  statue  with  the  force  of  his  emotion,  should 
wear  a  look  of  almost  superhuman  beatitude  was  only 
natural  and  proper.  Of  those  who  assisted  at  the  ceremony 
many  were  deeply  moved,  and  few  altogether  untouched: 
to  be  in  the  church  at  that  moment  gave  one  the  importance 
of  being  accessory  to  a  high  romance. 

At  the  wedding  reception  something  of  this  quality  of 
emotion  continued  still  to  possess  the  invited  guests  as  long 
as  Brenda  and  Manlio,  beneath  their  arch  of  flowers,  stood 
smiling  response  to  congratulations  and  compliments. 

It  was  in  the  general  experience  not  unlike  that  part  of 
the  opera  where,  to  a  matchless  music,  the  god  of  flame  and 
the  glowing  hearth  lauds  the  loveliness  of  woman  and  the 
strength  of  man's  pursuit;  and  the  other  gods,  uplifted, 
look  at  one  another  with  washed  eyes,  feeling  anew  how 
wonderful  they  all  are,  how  wonderful  it  all  is. 

The  heart  of  Leslie,  nevertheless,  as  she  bustled  about, 

343 


344  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

seeing  to  it  that  every  one  was  provided  with  refreshment, 
confessed  a  point  of  bitterness.  In  a  way,  it  was  envy  of 
Brenda.  Not  of  her  happiness,  or  her  husband,  of  course. 
But  she  did  wish  the  man  lived  and  would  present  himself 
who  could  inspire  her  with  such  feelings  as  Brenda 's. 
The  kind  of  man  who  cared  for  her  she  somehow  never 
cared  for — a  serious  barrier  to  experiencing  a  grande  pas- 
sion. And  on  this  day  of  wedding-bells  it  seemed  a  pity. 
The  girl  of  many  offers  felt  sad. 

Mrs.  Foss  smiled  a  pleased,  incessant  smile,  not  ''realiz- 
ing" the  thing  which  was  happening,  as  she  told  her  sister- 
in-law  who  had  come  over  from  America  with  the  bride. 
Her  chick  had  developed  tendencies  unknown  among  the 
breed,  taken  to  the  water  and  swum  away  with  a  swan. 
But  the  mother  had  confidence.  She  believed  in  marriage. 
The  institution  had  been  justified  by  her  example  and 
Jerome's.  Her  eyes  sought  him  out,  a  little  anxiously,  to 
peruse  his  face.  The  idea  could  not  for  a  moment  be  ad- 
mitted that  he  had  a  favorite  among  his  children,  but  yet 
it  was  acknowledged  that  Brenda  had  always  in  a  very 
special  way  been  near  to  her  father 's  heart.  From  his  calm 
and  serenity  in  conversation  with  that  nice  big  Doctor 
Bewick,  Mrs.  Foss  was  able  to  hope  that  he  too  did  not 
''realize." 

Aurora  watched  the  bride  and  groom  with  fairly  fasci- 
nated eyes,  but  from  a  certain  distance.  They  had  been 
nice,  they  had  thanked  her  handsomely  for  her  handsome 
present,  but  nothing  could  modify  her  regretful  certitude 
that  Brenda  did  not  care  for  her.  And  it  might  so  easily 
have  been  she  and  not  the  good  Aunt  Brenda  who  secured 
for  the  sposo  his  career  of  silver  lace  and  sabre.  .  .  .  And 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  3^5 

Brenda,  iunocently  unknowing,  would  just  the  same  not 
have  liked  her.  But  there!  Beautiful  Brenda  didn't  go 
about  loving  everybody.  She  had  the  more  glory  to  confer 
upon  the  one.  Oh,  harmoniously  matched,  high-removed 
pair !  Oh,  hymeneal  crowning  of  tenderness  and  truth !  .  .  . 
Aurora  in  a  kind  of  awe  wondered  what  elevated  things 
those  pale  rose  lips  of  the  bride  would  say  to  the  bridegroom 
when,  the  turmoil  of  festivity  ended,  they  were  in  nuptial 
solitude.  Impossible  to  imagine!  It  must  be  something 
altogether  beyond  other  brides;  and  his  words  must  make 
those  of  all  other  lovers  sound  common  and  poor. 

AYhen  the  arch  of  flowers  was  emptj^  and  the  happj'  pair 
had  left  for  the  train,  Lily  and  Gerald  went  strolling  about 
the  garden  hand  in  hand. 

Lily  had  been  a  bridesmaid,  Gerald  an  usher.  Both  were 
in  the  fine  apparel  of  their  parts;  thoughts  of  weddings 
hummed  in  both  of  their  heads. 

''Well,  Lily,"  said  the  young  man  idly,  in  their  walk 
between  odorous  lines  of  wall-flowers  and  heliotrope,  "I 
suppose  you  too  will  soon  be  getting  married." 

''Oh,  no!"  Lily  shook  her  head.  "There  is  nobody  I 
could  marry. ' ' 

"Why,  I  thought,  Lily,"  he  said,  "that  3^ou  were  going 
to  marry  me ! " 

"No,  Gerald,"  she  replied  promptly,  but  with  gentleness 
and  regret,  so  as  not  to  hurt  his  feelings. 

"I  might  come  and  live  with  you,"  she  added,  after  a 
second,  "and  keep  house  for  you.  A  cottage  in  the  country, 
with  beehives  and  ducks  and  a  little  donkey.  .  .  .  Gerald, 
do  you  know  about  Sir  William  Wallace?" 


346  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

Though  a  chasm  appeared  to  divide  this  subject  from  the 
last,  Gerald  shrewdly  supposed  a  connection  between  them. 

* '  Very  little.     You  tell  me. ' ' 

**You  haven't  read  'The  Scottish  Chiefs'?  I  took  it 
without  permission  and  kept  it  out  of  Fraulein's  sight.  It 
grows  light  early  now,  you  know,  and  I  read  it  for  hours 
before  getting  up.  Then  whenever  I  could,  I  read  it  in  the 
daytime.  And  after  they  had  left  me  at  night,  I  read  it 
with  the  pink  candles  of  my  birthday  cake.  I  cried  so  much 
that  when  I  finished  I  was  ill  with  a  fever  and  had  to  be  kept 
in  bed  for  three  days. ' ' 

''Why,  when  was  this?" 

*'Two  weeks  ago." 

"My  poor  little  Lily,  how  came  I  not  to  be  told  of  it? 
And  you  sent  me  such  a  beautiful  remembrance  when  I  was 
ill ! — ^Well,  Lily,  I  know  now  why  you  won 't  take  me.  I  'm 
not  much  like  Sir  William  Wallace,  that  's  a  fact.  I  might 
grow  like  him  in  courage  and  prowess,  perhaps,  to  please 
you,  but  I  know  that  I  should  never  be  beautiful  in  kilts. 
It  shall  be  as  you  say,  dear.  We  '11  be  brother  and  sister 
instead.  And  now  tell  me  more  about  this  book,  these  Scot- 
tish. .  .  .  Lily,  do  you  see  Mrs.  Hawthorne  on  the  door- 
step? Do  you  gather  that  the  signs  she  is  making  are 
meant  for  us?  We  came  up  together  and  I  think  she  may 
wish  to  say  she  is  ready  to  go,  and  will  give  me  a  lift  back 
to  town.  ..." 

**  We  came  up  together ! ' '  With  great  frequency  in  these 
days  Gerald  was  going  somewhere  with  Mrs.  Hawthorne, 
not  alone  with  her,  but  making  one  of  four  in  an  amiable 
party.  Sometimes  it  was  his  fate  to  make  conversation  by 
the    hour   with    Estelle,   while   Doctor   Tom    monopolized. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  347 

Aurora ;  on  the  other  hand,  he  sometimes  would  succeed  in 
getting  his  fingers  among  Occasion's  hair,  and  secure 
Aurora  for  his  share,  while  Dr.  Tom  was  apportioned  with 
the  slenderer  charmer.  But  the  behavior  of  all  was  civil- 
ized and  urbane,  and  if  a  thorn  pricked  or  nettle  burned, 
the  sufferer  concealed  his  pain  and  spoiled  nobody 's  fun. 

Gerald  would  in  reality  have  preferred  to  stay  away, 
almost  as  much  as  Estelle  and  possibly  Doctor  Tom  would 
have  preferred  him  to  do  so.  But  just  there  the  incal- 
culable, the  ungovernable,  in  human  nature  came  into  play. 
A  golden  thread,  a  mere  hair,  strong  as  a  steel  cable,  drew 
him  to  the  place  where  he  could  expect  to  find  no  comfort, 
and  had  no  object  to  accomplish  except  just  to  be  there,  with 
his  eyebrows  one  higher  than  the  other. 

Either  Estelle  liked  to  annoy  him,  or  she  was  unfortunate 
in  doing  it  without  malice. 

'^ Don't  they  make  a  noble-looking  couple?"  she  asked 
him,  gazing  at  Aurora  and  Tom  outlined  side  by  side 
against  the  light  of  the  window. 

''Yes,''  he  felt  obliged  to  say,  and  followed  it  quickly, 
without  apology  for  the  indiscretion  of  the  question :  ' '  Are 
they  going  to  marry  ? ' ' 

''That  remains  to  be  seen,"  she  said  in  a  way  which  made 
one  desire  to  set  the  dog  on  her.  "I  cherish  the  hope. 
May  I  offer  you  another  cigarette  ? ' ' 

He  sometimes  remained  scandalously  late  in  the  evening 
after  dining,  in  spite  of — oh,  by  so  much  ! — knowing  better. 
He  would  wait,  with  an  artist's  beautiful  air  of  time-forget- 
f ulness,  for  Dr.  Tom  to  get  up  to  go.  He  would'  instantly, 
as  if  remembering  himself,  get  up  to  go,  too,  and  walk  with 
the  doctor  as  far  as  his  hotel,  they  talking  together  like  men 
with  respect  for  each  other's  brains^  and  appreciation  of 


348  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

each  other's  character  and  company,  no  subject  of  conten- 
tion in  the  world. 

Gerald  pushed  courtesy  so  far  as  to  go  with  the  doctor, 
by  themselves,  on  certain  visits  to  hospitals,  to  certain  games 
of  pallone,  certain  monasteries  which  ladies  are  not  per- 
mitted to  enter,  Aurora  rejoicing  in  the  opportunities  to 
''get  good  and  acquainted"  which  she  saw  these  two  dear 
friends  of  hers  take. 

After  the  drive  back  from  the  wedding,  Gerald  re- 
sisted Aurora's  suggestion  that  he  enter  the  house  with 
them  and  remain  to  dine.  This  he  did  with  well-masked 
resentfulness.  As  it  was  not  Dr.  Bewick's  last  evening,  but 
the  evening  before  his  last,  Gerald  did  not  see  that  delicacy 
strictly  demanded  his  sacrifice.  But  Estelle  had  without  so 
many  compliments  informed  him  that  he  was  not  to  accept. 
She  had  particular  reasons,  she  darkly  enlightened  him,  for 
the  request. 

So,  with  a  paltry  excuse,  he  jumped  out  of  the  carriage 
before  it  reached  the  gate,  and  stood  looking  after  it,  hold- 
ing his  hat — the  glossy  tuha  which  Giovanna  had  with  her 
elbow  stroked  and  stroked  the  right  way  of  the  silk,  when 
she  laid  out  her  signorino's  outfit  for  the  wedding. 

Earlier  than  usual  after  dinner  Estelle  retired,  ''to  write 
up  her  diary, ' '  she  said.  Tom  was  left  to  have  with  Aurora 
that  conversation  which  Estelle  had  besought  him  to  have, 
and  of  which  by  a  significant  motion  of  the  face  she  had 
reminded  him  before  leaving  the  room.  He  came  to  the 
point  very  soon,  the  sooner  to  get  it  over. 

"Nell,"  he  said,  and,  leaning  back,  with  one  arm  flung 
along  the  top  of  the  sofa,  the  other  offering  to  his  lips  a 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFlCExNT  3^9 

thick  cigar,  waited  long  enough  for  her  to  wouder  what  was 
coming,  ''you  spend  too  much  money." 

Without  shadow  of  attempt  at  evasion,  she  said : 

"Tom,  I  do/' 

*'You  've  got  to  retrench,  girl.  You  've  got  to  be  more 
careful. ' ' 

' '  Yes,  I  suppose  I  've  got  to. ' ' 

' '  Let  's  be  practical.     How  are  you  going  to  do  it  ? " 

"I  don't  know,  Tom.  It  's  so  easy  to  spend  and  so  hard 
to  hold  on  to  your  money !  If  any  one  had  told  me  a  year 
ago  I  could  get  rid  of  as  much  money  in  one  year  as  I  have 
done,  I  shouldn't  have  known  how  I  could  do  it  without 
opening  the  window  and  throwing  it  out. ' ' 

"Well,  I  'm  glad  you  don't  deny  a  bent  toward  extrava- 
gance. ' ' 

"I  don't  deny  anything  that  means  I  spend  a  lot  of 
money.     I  have  more  sense.     The  facts  are  there." 

' '  You  've  already  broken  into  your  capital,  have  n  't 
you?" 

"Did  Hattie  tell  you  that  or  did  you  guess?  It  's  true,  I 
have;  but — "  she  tried  to  place  the  harm  done  in  a  harm- 
less light — "it  isn't  so  bad  but  that  if  I  saved  for  a  little 
while  I  could  make  it  up  again. ' ' 

"If!  True;  but  are  you  going  to,  Nell?  That  's  the 
question. ' ' 

* '  Oh,  Tom,  I  never  ought  to  have  been  given  any  money 
if  I  was  to  hold  on  to  it!"  Aurora  almost  groaned.  "I 
didn't  know  at  first.  I  was  pleased  as  Punch.  I  lay 
awake  nights  just  to  gloat  and  feel  grand.  I  tell  you,  I 
meant  to  hold  on  to  it !  I  tell  you,  it  was  n  't  going  to  get 
away  from  me   after  that  good   fight  we   made   for  it! 


350  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

But — "  the  effect  of  a  mental  groan  was  repeated — ''the 
whole  thing  is  n  't  as  I  thought  it  would  be,  not  a  bit. ' ' 

She  stopped,  and  while  she  tried  to  coordinate  her  ideas, 
Dr.  Tom  quietly  waited  for  explanation  or  illustration  of 
her  meaning. 

*'I  don't  like  money,  there  's  the  whole  of  it!"  she  gave 
him  the  sum  of  her  attempt  in  one  east. 

Dr.  Tom  continued  to  wait,  smoking. 

"In  fact,  I  hate  it." 

Dr.  Tom  continued  to  wait,  without  interrupting,  or  try- 
ing to  help  her  disentangle  her  thought,  of  which  he  had  in 
truth  no  inkling. 

''I  hate  it,  and  I  love  it,  both.  That  's  truer,  I  suppose. 
But  I  can 't  be  at  rest  with  it. ' ' 

"Never  fear,  girl," — his  tone  was  humorous, — "you  '11 
get  used  to  it.  Just  from  watching  you,  I  should  have 
fancied  you  were  pretty  well  used  to  it  already." 

"When  I  was  a  child  it  was  just  the  same  way  with 
candy,"  she  went  on  with  her  own  train  of  thought,  not 
minding  his ;  "I  loved  it — and  gobbled  it  right  up.  Some 
of  the  girls  made  theirs  last  and  last.  I  ate  mine  at  once. 
And  it  was  n't  only  because  I  was  a  pig  with  no  self-control. 
I  wanted  to  have  done  with  it  and  go  back  to  a  sensible  life. 
With  this  money  I  have  the  same  feeling — and  then  another 
feeling  that  I  sort  of  can't  account  for,  as  if  I  wanted  to 
get  rid  of  it  because  there  was  something  wrong  in  me 
having  it." 

"That  money?  You  sure  earned  it !"  he  came  out  vigor- 
ously.    "Don't  be  a  goose,  Nell." 

'  *  I  was  n  't  thinking  of  what  you  think.  But  I  'm  afraid 
I  am  a  goose,  Tom,  an  awful  goose,  and  I  'm  ashamed  of  it. 
I    somehow    can't    feel   it    right — ^there! — to    have   more 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  351 

than  the  rest.  Come  right  down  to  it,  I  feel  mean  in 
having  something  the  rest  haven't  got,  and  keeping  it 
from  them,  like  a  nasty  fat  boy  stuffing  pie  with  a  lot 
of  hungry  ragamuffins  looking  on.  I  know  it  isn't  good 
common  sense,  or  how  could  rich  people  be  so  all  right 
and  calm  in  their  minds  as  they  are,  and  have  everybody's 
respect?  Rich  people  are  all  right,  I  've  always  sort  of 
looked  up  to  them,  with  their  advantages  and  things.  I 
haven't  a  bit  of  fault  to  find.  But  Tom,  I  suppose  the 
amount  of  it  is  I  was  born  poor  and  I  go  on  having  the  feel- 
ings of  the  poor.  If  any  one  asks  me  for  anything  and 
appears  to  need  it,  I  Ve  got  to  give  it  or  feel  too  mean 
to  live.  Me,  Nell,  who  was  poor  myself  for  so  long,  how 
would  I  look  hardening  my  heart  against  any  one  who  came 
and  wanted  to  borrow?  I  'd  be  ashamed  to  look  them  in 
the  eye.'' 

"With  that  view  of  it,  of  course  I  can  see  why  your 
money  wouldn't  last  long." 

*'0h,  I  'm  extravagant  besides,  I  '11  own  to  that;  that  's 
the  real  trouble.  I  want  to  buy  everything  that  takes  my 
eye,  I  want  to  make  everything  run  smooth,  like  on  greased 
wheels,  and  to  have  all  the  faces  around  me  look  pleased, 
and  everybody  liking  me.  I  love  the  feeling  of  luxury  and 
festivity,  and  oh,  I  just  love  a  grand  good  time!  That  's 
w^hat  the  money  was  given  to  me  for,  wasn't  it,  so  that  I 
could  have  a  grand  good  time?  But  when  I  've  indulged 
myself,  Tom,  I  wouldn't  have  the  face,  if  I  had  the  heart, 
to  say  no  to  anybody  that  came  along  and  wanted  me  to  in- 
dulge them,  too.  Now,  I  don't  want  you  to  go  thinking  this 
is  generosity,  Tom,  or  a  good  heart,  or  that  I  have  any 
sneaking  idea  in  my  own  bosom  that  it  's  anything  of  the 
sort.     I  'd  be  a  regular — low-down — soggy — sinful  sowbug, 


352  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

I  'd  be  too  dirt-mean  to  live,  if  I  pretended  it  was  that. 
When  I  was  poor  I  never  was  generous ;  I  never  thought  of 
it.  I  worked  hard  for  what  I  got ;  and  was  in  the  same  boat 
exactly  as  the  rest ;  I  was  entitled  to  the  little  bit  I  'd 
worked  for.  But  now  it  's  different.  It  's  like  I  'd  won 
the  big  prize  in  the  lottery.  I  can't  be  stingy  with  it  and 
not  blush.  I  can't  sit  there  like  a  swollen  wood-tick  and 
be  rich  all  by  myself." 

' '  All  right,  Nell ;  all  right.  It  's  a  perfectly  understand- 
able way  of  looking  at  it,  if  it  is  rather  far-fetched.  But 
good-by  to  the  hard-earned  thousands.  You  won't  have  a 
smitch  of  them  left." 

' '  Good-by,  then,  and  good  riddance ! ' '  cried  Aurora  vio- 
lently, almost  pettishly.  *'I  don't  really  like  them,  anyhow. 
It  's  too  easy  just  to  write  your  name  on  a  check.  At  first 
I  thought  I  was  living  in  a  fairy-tale ;  but  once  you  've  got 
used  to  it,  it  does  n't  compare  with  the  fun  you  get  the  old- 
fashioned  way,  working  hard  for  a  thing,  and  planning,  and 
going  to  price  it,  and  saving,  and  finally  getting  it,  and  that 
proud !  People  who  have  n't  been  poor  simply  don't  know. 
Why,  that  one  poor  little  silver  bangle  I  had  when  I  was 
fifteen  did  more  to  give  me  pure  joy  than  any  of  the 
beautiful  things  I  've  bought  this  whole  last  year.  I  'm 
sorry  if  it  seems  ungrateful  to  my  bloated  bank-account,  but 
it  's  true.  Another  thing,  Tom.  I  was  brought  up  to  work. 
I  won't  say  I  liked  it.  I  don't  think  many  people  who  've 
got  to  work  do  like  it.  But  since  I  gave  it  up,  nothing  I  've 
found  has  really  filled  its  place  to  give  me  an  appetite  and 
the  feeling  I  'd  a  right  to  a  good  time.  To  sit  back  and  let 
others  work  while  you  fan  your  face — I  can 't  help  it,  I  feel 
a  sort  of  disgrace  in  it.  I  know  better,  it  's  just  the  way  I 
feel.     I  know  all  the  while  that  's  the  way  the  world  was 


AURORA  THE  MAGxXIFICENT  ,'353 

planned,  some  to  be  rich  and  some  to  be  poor — Think  how 
rich  King  Solomon  was !  And  your  dear  father ! — some  to 
work  and  some  not,  with  changes  round  about  once  in  a 
while,  like  in  my  case,  and  crosses  and  trials  and  tempta- 
tions belonging  to  every  state,  and  the  love  of  God  and  a 
quiet  heart  possible  in  every  state.  And  I  've  always  had 
such  respect  for  moneyed  people  and  their  refined  ways.  .  .  . 
But  if  you  want  me  to  start  in  now  and  do  differently  from 
what  I  've  been  doing,  I  tell  you  truly,  I  don't  know  how 
I  'm  going  to  do  it,  Tom.  I  'd  rather  not  have  the  money 
at  all/' 

''You  won't  have  it,  Nell,  dear.  You  've  only  to  keep 
on,  and  you  won't  have  it." 

"All  right.  Then  I  '11  go  back  to  work  and  never 
happier  in  my  life.  I  'm  strong  and  able,  I  've  got  years  of 
work  in  me.  And  if  you  think  I  've  grown  so  devoted  to  all 
these  frills  that  I  could  n't  give  them  up,  you  '11  see !" 

''Of  course  I  haven't  the  faintest  right  to  control  your 
use  of  your  money — " 

"But  of  course  you  have,  Tom," — her  tone  changed  at 
once,  and  was  eagerly  humble, — "every  right.  You  can 
take  it  away  from  me  any  moment  you  please.  Who  has  a 
right,  I  should  like  to  know,  if  not  you  ?" 

"Well,  then,  Nell,  I  'm  going  to  make  a  suggestion. 
What  you  have  said  shows  me  that  simple  advice  would  be 
of  no  use  in  this  case.  Don't  think,  girl,  that  I  don't  get  at 
your  way  of  seeing  the  matter.  If  I  appear  cold  toward  it, 
if  I  don't  seem  to  sympathize,  it  's  because  the  logical  re- 
sults would  land  you  in  a  hole  from  which  I  'd  feel  a  call 
by  and  by  to  try  to  pull  j^ou  out.  See? — As  a  promise  to 
keep  inside  of  your  income  would  apparently  embitter  life 
to  you,  I  won't  ask  for  it,  merely  suggesting  the  fitness  of 


554  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

trying  to  observe  such  a  restriction.  Even  as  regards  your 
power  to  throw  it  away,  there  '11  be  a  lot  more  of  it  to  throw 
if  you  respect  your  capital.  However,  the  money  is  yours, 
to  do  exactly  what  you  please  with,  but  this  I  ask :  empower 
me  to  turn  some  part  of  it  into  an  annuity,  unalienable  and 
modestly  sufficient.'' 

' '  An  annuity  ?    What  's  that  ? ' ' 

''A  sum  of  money  so  fixed  that  you  receive  the  interest 
as  long  as  you  live  and  have  no  power  over  the  sum  itself. 
It  's  not  yours  to  use,  to  transfer  or  yet  to  bequeath.  In 
your  case  the  one  safe  investment,  the  single  way  I  see 
to  keep  you  out  of  the  poorhouse." 

**Do  you  say  so!  All  right,  Tom;  do  what  you  think 
best.  But  see  here.  Whatever  you  arrange  for  me  that 
way,  you  've  got  to  arrange  for  Hattie,  too,  or  it  would  n  't 
be  fair.  I  won't  think  of  it  unless  you  '11  do  the  same  for 
both.  If  I  hadn't  a  penny  left  in  the  world,  you  know 
the  Carvers  would  take  me  in  in  a  minute.  Then  if  you  do 
it,  don't  you  see,"  she  brought  in  slyly,  "when  I  've  spent 
my  money,  there  '11  always  be  Hattie 's  for  me  to  fall  back 
on.     Don't  let  her  know  you  're  doing  it,  Tom,  but  fix  it." 

*'A11  right.  Two  comfortable  little  annuities,  enough  to 
be  independent  on,  and  be  taken  care  of  if  you  're  sick. ' ' 

"That  's  it,  Tom.  Then  everybody's  mind  will  be  set  at 
rest.    And  this  I  promise :  I  '11  try  to  be  a  good  girl. ' ' 

That  subject  being  dropped,  there  was  silence  for  a 
minute  or  two,  while  Tom  thoughtfully  smoked. 

Aurora's  face  was  a  living  rose  with  the  excitement  of 
their  discussion.  She  put  her  hands  to  her  cheeks  to  feel 
how  they  burned,  then  turned  to  Tom  to  laugh  with  him 
over  it.  The  pink  of  her  face  enhanced  the  blueness  of  her 
eyes.    It  was  not  unusual  for  persons  sitting  near  Aurora, 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  355 

women  as  well  as  men,  to  feel  a  sudden  desire  to  squeeze 
her  in  their  arms  and  tell  her  how  sweet  she  was.  Tom 
found  himself  saying  a  thing  he  had  taken  a  solemn  en- 
gagement with  himself  not  to  say. 

"I  had  hoped" — his  utterance  was  slow  and  heavy — *'to 
find  a  different  solution  to  the  difficulty." 

Her  face  questioned  him,  and  at  once  looked  troubled. 

**I  was  going  to  try  to  take  over  all  your  difficulties  and 
bundle  them  up  with  my  own;  but,"  he  continued,  after  a 
moment,  with  force,  ' '  I  'm  not  going  to  do  it. ' ' 

* '  That  's  right,  Tom, ' '  she  came  out  eagerly,  without  pre- 
tending not  to  understand.  *'If  I  know  what  you  mean — 
don't  do  it!  Oh,  I  'm  so  grateful,  I  can't  tell  you,  that 
you  've  made  up  your  mind  that  way.  Because,  dear  Tom, 
whatever  you  wanted  me  to  do,  seems  to  me  I  'd  have  to  do 
it.  I  don't  see  how  I  could  say  no  to  anything  you  asked 
me.  It  would  break  my  heart,  I  guess,  if  I  had  to  hold  out 
against  a  real  wish  of  yours.  I  could  n  't  do  it.  All  the 
same,  I  know  we  would  n't  make  just  the  happiest  kind  of 
couple — 'cause  why,  we  're  too  like  brother  and  sister,  Tom. 
It  would  be  unnatural.  I  feel  toward  you,  Tom,  just  like 
an  own,  own  sister — not  those  mean  old  things,  Idell  and 
Cora,  who  are  your  sisters — but  I  feel  toward  you  as  I 
would  to  my  own  brother  Charlie.  There  's  nothing  I 
would  n't  do  for  you.  But  if  I  had  to  marry  you,  there  'd 
be  something  about  it — well,  I  don't  know.  I  can't  explain. 
Have  n  't  you  seen  how  there  are  things  that  are  perfect  for 
one  use  and  no  good  at  all  for  another?  I  'm  a  pretty  good 
nurse,  ain't  I,  Tom?  But  what  would  I  be  as  a  bareback 
circus-rider  ? ' ' 

**We  aren't  going  to  talk  about  it,  Nell.  I  told  you  I 
had  given  it  up.     But,"  he  went  on  after  a  heavy  moment, 


356  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

unable  entirely  to  subjugate  his  humanity — ''but  I  wish 
now  I  had  asked  you  before  you  left  home. ' ' 

She  was  too  oppressed  with  misery  to  speak  at  once,  so 
he  amplified. 

''But  it  seemed  rather  more — I  don't  want  to  call  it  by 
any  such  big  word  as  chivalrous, — it  seemed  rather  whiter 
not  to  urge  it,  when  circumstances  might  have  seemed  to  lay 
a  compulsion  on  you.  Then  it  seemed  better  to  let  all  the 
talk,  the  unpleasantness,  in  Denver  die  down  first.  Then, 
too,  I  wanted  you  to  see  the  world ;  I  liked  the  thought  of 
you  having  your  fling.  But,"  he  reiterated,  "I  can't  help 
wishing  I  had  followed  my  instinct  and  asked  you  before  I 
let  you  go.  Tell  the  truth,  Nell.  Would  n't  you  have  had 
me  then?" 

"I  suppose,  Tom,  that  I  should  have  you  now  if  you 
asked  me.  But  then  or  now,"  she  brought  in  quickly,  "it 
would  be  a  mistake.  I  could  n't  love  you  more  dearly,  Tom, 
than  I  do,  good  big  brother  that  you  've  been.  Dear  me,  all 
we  've  been  through  together !  Then  all  the  fun  we  've 
had!  We  couldn't  change  to  something  different  without 
all  being  spoiled.  You  don't  seem  to  know,  but  I  do,  that 
I  'm  not  the  woman  for  you  in  that  way.  We  're  too  much 
alike,  Tom.  What  you  want  is  a  little  dainty  woman,  deli- 
cate, quick,  bright-minded,  something,  to  find  an  example 
near  at  hand,  like  Hattie  Carver.  A  big  fellow  like  you 
wants  some  one  to  cherish  and  protect.  How  would  any 
one  go  to  work  protecting  and  cherishing  a  littia  darling  big 
as  a  moose!" 

' '  I  might  have  known ' ' — Doctor  Tom  made  his  reflections 
aloud, — "that  a  good  big  husky  man  wouldn't  have  a 
chance  with  a  good  big  husky  girl  while  a  sickly,  sad-eyed, 
spindle-shanked  son  of  a  gun  was  hanging  round ! ' ' 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  357 

** There  's  nothing  in  that,  I  should  think  you  'd  know," 
said  Aurora,  quickly.  *'I  like  him,  of  course,  and  I  like  to 
have  him  round.  Haven't  you  found  him  good  company 
yourself?  But  that  's  just  friendship.  Friendship  like 
between  a  fish  and  a  bird,  and  no  more  prospect  of  a  differ- 
ent ending  than  that.  If  that  's  troubling  you,  you  can  set 
your  mind  at  rest,  Tom." 

"It  's  none  of  my  business,  anyhow,"  said  the  doctor, 
brusquely,  flinging  down  his  cigar  and  walking  away  from 
her  to  the  mantelpiece,  where  he  stood  looking  up  at  her 
portrait,  but  thinking  of  that  other  portrait  of  her,  with  its 
wizardry  and  strange  truth,  which  she  had  not  failed  to 
show  him. 

"Tom,  if  I  thought  you  could  feel  bitter,  I  should  die, 
that  's  all,"  cried  Aurora,  jumping  up  and  following. 
* '  You  've  been  such  a  friend  to  me !  Do  you  suppose  I  for- 
get? Never  was  there  such  a  friend.  And  you  know,  now 
don't  you,  Tom,  that  I  think  the  whole,  whole  world  of 
you?"  Arms  were  clasped  around  his  neck, — large  arms, 
solid  and  polished  as  marble,  but  tender  as  mother 
birds;  a  head  was  pressed  hard  against  his  shoulder. 
"There  never  could  anybody  take  your  place  with  me. 
You  'd  only  have  to  call  over  land  and  sea,  and  I  'd  come 
flying  to  serve  you,  to  nurse  you  in  sickness  or  help  you  in 
sorrow.  Give  me  a  good  hug,  Tom.  Give  me  a  good  kiss, 
and  say  you  know  I  mean  every  word! — Now,  isn't  this 
better  than  to  see  me  across  the  table  at  breakfast,  with  my 
hair  in  curlers,  and  to  have  me  snooping  round  being  jealous 
of  your  female  patients?" 

"No,  it  's  not  better;  but  it  's  pretty  good." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Tom,  that  you  'd  be  any  more 
likely  to  cut  my  name  in  a  tree,  or  kiss  my  stolen  glove,  than 


358  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

I  'd  be  to  wish  on  the  first  star  you  loved  me  or  write  poetry 
about  my  feelin's?" 

**Nell,  I  'm  not  telling;  the  subject  is  closed.  But  any 
time  there  's  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  anything  in  this 
world,  Nell,  you  know  you  We  only  got  to  sing  out.*' 

''You  '11  marry,  Tom  dear,  by  and  by.'' 

*'Very  well.  If  you  say  so,  I  '11  marry.  But  what  I  said 
will  hold  good  if  I  do.  It  will  hold  good,  too,  if  you  marry, 
Nell.     Oh,  let  's  talk  about  something  else." 

The  change  of  subject  could  hardly  be  effected  in  less 
time  than  it  takes  to  reverse  engines ;  a  minute  or  two  passed 
before  Aurora  inquired  concerning  the  number  of  hours' 
travel  between  Florence  and  Liverpool,  then  about  his 
steamer,  his  stateroom  and  the  exact  time  of  his  starting. 

''Nine  o'clock  in  the  evening.  I  see,  so  as  to  have  day- 
light for  the  Alps.  You  '11  dine  here  of  course  and  we  '11 
take  you  to  the  station. ' ' 

He  judged  it  more  prudent  to  dine  at  his  hotel  and  meet 
them  afterwards  at  the  station  near  train-time. 

"Then — "  sighed  Aurora,  sorrowfully,  "this  is  our  last 
evening!  For  I  heard  you  and  the  consul  planning  for 
to-morrow  evening  together,  and  he  to  read  you  some  chap- 
ters of  his  book.  A  compliment,  Tom.  He  's  never  offered 
to  read  us  any  of  it.  I  'm  only  sorry  the  idea  did  n  't  ripen 
sooner,  so  that  we  need  n't  be  robbed  of  your  very  last  even- 
ing. "We  must  make  the  most  of  our  time,  then.  Suppose 
we  go  into  the  garden,  Tom,  and  walk  across  the  street  to 
the  river — I  don't  have  to  put  anything  on  for  just  that 
step.  It  's  so  pretty,  looking  upstream  at  the  bridges,  and 
across  at  the  hills  your  pa  was  so  fond  of.  Wasn't  the 
Judge  just  crazy  about  Florence!  For  the  longest  time 
after  I  came  I  couldn't  see  why,  but  I  'm  beginning." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  TIRED  look  overspread  Estelle's  face,  when,  re- 
turning home  after  seeing  Dr.  Bewick  off  on  his 
way  to  Paris,  they  found  Gerald  waiting. 

She  said  to  herself,  in  tempestuous  inward  irritation, 
that  it  was  inconceivable  a  young  man  so  well  up  in  the 
ways  of  the  world  shouldn't  know  any  better. 

It  could  not  be  said  that  Estelle  did  not  like  Gerald  Fane. 
Considered  by  himself,  she  did  like  him,  much  more,  she 
believed,  than  he  liked  her.  His  odd  distinction,  too  subtle 
and  complex  to  describe,  aroused  in  her  a  vague  hunger  of 
the  mind.  But  considered  in  relation  to  Aurora,  he  *'was 
on  her  nerves,"  she  said. 

''That  he  shouldn't  know  any  better — "  she  mentally 
scolded,  behind  her  tired  look,  *'than  to  obtrude  himself 
the  very  first  minute  after  Doctor  Tom's  departure!" 

But  Gerald  was  not  thinking  he  showed  a  horrid  want  of 
tact.  The  other  way,  rather.  He  saw  himself  as  the  inti- 
mate old  friend  who  comes  to  call  right  after  the  funeral, 
and  by  his  presence  console  a  little,  and  brighten,  the 
bereaved. 

Aurora's  red  eyes  smote  him  at  once.  Aurora  was  still 
in  tearful  mood.  The  sense  not  only  of  her  dear  friend 
going,  but  going  with  a  secret  weight  on  his  heart  that  it 
had  been  in  her  power  to  prevent,  made  her  own  heart  mis- 
erably heavy,  too.  For  the  moment  Tom  counted  for  her 
more  than  all  else,  and  she  reproached  herself  that  when  he 

359 


360  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

had  done  so  much  for  her  she  had  not  been  willing  to  do 
such  an  ordinary  little  thing  for  him  as  to  marry  him; 
and  she  reproached  herself  because  it  was  a  relief,  despite 
her  great  wish  to  be  loyal,  to  think  they  should  not  meet 
again  until  all  that  was  well  in  the  past. 

Estelle  hoped  to  hear  her  friend  say  to  Gerald  something 
to  the  effect  that  she  was  in  no  mood  for  a  social  call ;  but 
Aurora  welcomed  the  visitor  with  unaffected  warmth  and 
sat  down  in  her  hat  to  talk  with  him.  So  Estelle  said 
primly  that  it  was  late,  and  she  was  tired;  if  they  would 
excuse  her,  she  would  go  to  bed. 

Aurora  talked  about  Tom  and  nothing  but  Tom. 
Sweetly,  sighfully,  she  spoke,  as  more  than  once  before, 
of  those  many  things  he  had  done  for  her,  but  spoke  of 
them  this  evening  more  amply ;  his  care  of  her,  a  penniless 
patient,  in  that  hospital  where  she  woke  up  after  a  space  of 
unconsciousness;  his  unremitting  kindness  when  she  lived 
in  his  house  and  took  care  of  his  father,  the  dear  old  judge, 
who  was  sick  three  long  years  before  he  died ;  the  proof  of 
goodness  more  remarkable  still  which  he  gave  after  that. 

A  tremulous  hope  flickered  up  in  Gerald  that  she  would 
go  on  and  tell  him  about  the  latter,  perhaps  filling  in  some 
of  the  lacuna?  which  her  history  had  for  him.  Much  had 
come  out  in  their  many  hours  of  talk,  but  he  had  found  her 
circumspect  with  regard  to  certain  parts  of  her  life,  and  had 
never  put  a  question.  In  one  so  frank,  her  avoidance  ap- 
peared a  result  of  dislike  to  remembering  those  unmen- 
tioned  links  in  the  chain  of  events. 

But  this  evening  again  she  stopped  short  of  telling  him 
what  he  would  have  liked  to  know — how  Bewick  was  con- 
nected with  her  wealth.  For  it  had  come  to  her  from  no 
second  husband:  she  had  not  been  twice  married. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  361 

She  broke  off  with  the  words,  *'0h,  some  time  I  '11  tell 
you  the  whole  story.  I  don't  feel  like  it  now.  It  always 
makes  me  so  mad  ! ' ' 

If  Aurora  had  been  pledged  to  Bewick,  thought  Gerald, 
the  most  natural  thing  would  have  been  to  tell  him  of  it  this 
evening.  In  her  expatiating  upon  all  she  owed  to  Bewick, 
Gerald  felt  a  wish  to  explain  how  it  was  that  without 
being  engaged  to  him  she  could  commit  the  impropriety  of 
publicly  weeping  over  his  departure. 

It  seemed  to  Gerald  rather  late  in  the  day  for  him  to 
seek  an  excuse  to  call  at  the  Hermitage ;  yet  on  the  after- 
noon following  Dr.  Bewick's  departure  he  sought  for  one — 
one  having  reference  to  Estelle.  He  took  with  him  a  pro- 
pitiatory little  volume  containing  translations  of  well-known 
poems  by  one  Amiel.  Estelle  was  regarded  as  being  im- 
mensely interested  in  French ;  she  daily  translated  themes 
back  and  forth  from  her  own  language  into  that  of  Moliere. 
These  singularly  neat  and  exact  productions  of  Amiel 's 
should  delight — and  disarm  her. 

Gerald  did  not  dislike  Estelle,  far  from  it.  He  did 
justice  to  her  as  a  good,  true-hearted,  self-improving  Amer- 
ican. Taken  by  herself,  he  felt  for  her  decided  regard ;  but 
taken  in  connection  with  Aurora  he  would  sometimes  have 
liked  delicately  to  lift  her  between  finger  and  thumb  and 
drop  her  into  a  well. 

When  he  entered  the  red-and-green  room,  the  very  least 
bit  timidly,  with  his  book  in  his  hand,  he  perceived  almost 
at  once  that  something  unusual  was  in  the  air,  and  the 
shades  of  feeling  between  himself  and  Estelle  became  for 
the  moment  of  no  importance. 

Nothing  was  said  at  first  of  the  cause  for  Aurora's  air  of 


362  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

repressed  excitement,  as  she  knit  on  a  pink  and  white  baby- 
jacket,  or  the  cloudy  annoyance  puckering  Estelle's  brow 
as  she  stitched  on  her  silk  tapestry.  The  ladies  might 
merely  have  been  quarrelling,  thought  the  visitor,  and  made 
himself  as  far  as  he  could  a  soothing  third,  chatting  with 
Estelle  about  Amiel  and  with  Aurora  about  young  Mrs. 
Sebastian,  whose  baby  was  to  rejoice  in  the  little  garment 
half -finished  between  her  hands. 

"Gerald,"  Aurora  interrupted  him  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence,  letting  her  hands  and  work  drop  in  her  lap, 
*' something  so  queer  and  unpleasant  has  happened!" 

He  raised  both  eyebrows  in  solicitous  participation,  and 
mutely  questioned. 

"It  's  about  Charlie  Hunt.  I  never  would  have  imagined 
— you  would  n  't  either. ' ' 

"My  imagination,  dear  friend,  is  more  far-reaching  in 
some  ways  than  yours,"  he  quickly  corrected  her,  "and  has 
had  more  practice  than  yours  in  ways  of  unpleasantness. 
But  do  tell  me  what  it  is  that  has  happened." 

"Charlie  Hunt!  Charlie  Hunt!"  she  repeated,  like  one 
unable  to  make  herself  believe  a  thing.  "Charlie  Hunt  to 
turn  nasty  like  that  from  one  day  to  the  next ! ' ' 

"To  turn—" 

* '  He  was  here  to  dinner  just  two  weeks  ago  and  perfectly 
all  right.  "We  had  a  nice,  long  chat  together  on  the  sofa. 
But  he  didn't  make  his  party-call  quite  as  soon  as  he 
usually  does,  so  when  I  saw  him  at  Brenda's  wedding  I 
thought  of  course  he  'd  come  up  and  tell  me  how  busy  he  'd 
been  or  some  other  taradiddle.  But  he  didn't  come  near 
me.  I  was  sort  of  surprised, — still,  there  were  so  many 
people  there  that  he  knew,  and  we  did  n  't  stay  quite  to  the 
end,  you  remember.     I  did  n  't  even  think  enough  about  it 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  363 

to  mention  it  to  Estelle.  Well,  this  forenoon  I  went  to  the 
bank,  and  when  I  'd  got  my  money,  I  happened  to  catch 
sight  of  Charlie,  in  the  side-room,  you  know,  where  his 
desk  is.  I  thought  I  'd  like  to  speak  to  him.  He  's  always 
wanted  me  to  ask  for  him  when  I  went  to  the  bank,  and 
I  've  done  it  more  than  once,  and  we  've  had  five  minutes' 
chat.  I  was  just  going  to  tease  him  a  little  bit  about  com- 
ing to  see  me  so  seldom  nowadays,  when  he  used  to  come  so 
often,  and  ask  about  the  lady  in  the  case.  There  really  is 
one,  I  guess.  Italo  told  me.  So  I  asked  the  old  boy — you 
know  the  one  I  mean,  the  old  servant  of  the  bank,  who  's 
always  there,  to  tell  Mr.  Hunt  that  Mrs.  Hawthorne  would 
like  to  speak  with  him,  and  then  I  took  a  seat,  and  in  a 
minute  in  came  Charlie,  with  just  his  usual  look. 

''Now,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  Ve  never  had  one  un- 
pleasant word  with  Charlie  Hunt;  I  Ve  always  liked  him 
real  well.  I  put  down  my  foot  against  letting  him  run  me 
and  my  house,  but  there  never  was  a  word  said  about  it. 
I  balked,  but  I  didn't  kick.  All  along  I  Ve  been  just  as 
nice  to  him  as  I  know  how,  except  just  one  moment,  when  I 
stuck  a  little  pin  into  him  the  night  of  the  veglione,  not  sup- 
posing that  he  'd  ever  know  who  did  it. 

''Well,  I  was  sitting  there  at  the  table  with  the  news- 
papers, and  he  came  and  stood  near,  without  taking  a  chair, 
as  if  he  hadn't  much  time  to  spare.  I  began  to  talk  and 
joke  about  his  cutting  me  dead  at  the  wedding,  and  he  lis- 
tened and  talked  back  in  a  common-enough  way,  only  I  no- 
ticed that  he  once  or  twice  called  me  Mrs.  Barton  instead  of 
Mrs.  Hawthorne.  Now  I  must  go  back  and  tell  you  that 
some  time  ago  when  I  was  at  the  bank  he  casually  asked  me 
if  I  knew  of  any  Mrs.  Helen  Barton  in  Florence,  and  he 
showed  me  two  letters  in  the  same  handwriting,  one  ad- 


364  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

dressed  to  the  English  bank,  and  the  other  to  the  American 
bank,  Florence,  that  had  been  there  at  Hunt  &  Landini's 
for  some  time,  and  no  one  had  called  for  and  they  did  n  't 
know  what  to  do  with.  Now,  the  instant  my  eye  lit  on  those 
letters  I  knew  who  'd  written  them,  what  was  in  them,  and 
who  they  were  meant  for.  All  letters  for  Estelle  and  me, 
you  know,  are  first  sent  to  Estelle 's  house  in  East  Boston,  to 
be  forwarded  to  us  wherever  we  might  be  in  Europe;  but 
that  letter  had  escaped.  That  letter  was  from  a  queer  kind 
of  sour,  unsuccessful  woman  called  lona  Allen,  who  boarded 
once  at  the  same  house  with  me  on  Springfield  Street, — the 
languishing  kind  of  critter  that  I  never  could  stand,  who 
hadn't  the  gumption  of  a  half -drowned  chicken,  who  'd 
never  stuck  to  anything  or  put  any  elbow-grease  into  the 
work  on  hand,  and  whined  all  the  time,  and  was  looking  out 
for  some  one  to  support  her.  I  guessed  she  'd  heard  of  my 
money  and  was  writing  me  a  sweet  letter  of  congratulations, 
along  with  a  hard-luck  storj^  I  'd  have  liked  to  get  hold 
of  her  letter,  but  didn't  exactly  see  how  I  could.  I  said 
to  Charlie,  'Let  me  take  it;  perhaps  I  can  find  the  one  it  's 
meant  for  among  my  acquaintances.'  But  he  didn't  seem 
to  think  that  could  be  done ;  so  there  the  matter  dropped.  I 
did  n't  care  much.  lona  Allen  can  look  for  some  one  nearer 
home  to  support  her. 

"Well,  to  go  back.  When  Charlie  Hunt  had  called  me 
Mrs.  Barton  for  the  third  time  I  realized  from  his  way  of 
doing  it  that  it  wasn't  a  slip  of  the  tongue,  and  I  stopped 
him  short  and  said: 

*'  'What  makes  you  call  me  Mrs.  Barton  all  of  a  sud- 
den?'" 

"  'It  's  j^our  name,  isn't  it?'  he  said,  with  a  queer  look. 

*  *  '  No, '  I  came  right  out  strong  and  bold.     And  I  was  n  't 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  365 

lying  either.  It  isn't  my  name.  I  don't  really  know 
what  my  name  is.  It  's  Hawthorne  as  much  as  it  's  any- 
thing. Jim  changed  his  name  half  a  dozen  times,  and  the 
name  he  married  me  under  I  found  out  wasn't  his  real 
name. 

"Charlie  Hunt  stood  there  a  moment  as  if  thinking  it 
over,  looking  at  me  with  the  meanest  grin;  then  he  said 
with  that  hateful,  sarcastic  look  of  a  person  who  thinks 
he  's  being  smart  in  getting  back  at  you : 

''  *Is  that  as  true,'  he  said,  'as  that  you  never  indulged  in 
carnival  humor  masked  as  a  crow?'  Then  I  knew  he  'd 
somehow  got  on  to  the  truth  about  that  night  at  the 
veglione.    But  I  wasn't  going  to  give  it  away. 

**  'You  know  what  you  're  driving  at  better  than  I  do,' 
I  said.  And  then  I  said :  '  What  's  it  all  about  ?  What  's 
your  game?'  And  he  said,  as  if  I  'd  been  a  common 
swindler  that  he  'd  found  out : 

"  'What  's  yours?' 

''Then  I  felt  myself  get  mad. 

"  'You  're  a  mean  little  pest,'  I  said,  but  between  my 
teeth,  and  not  so  that  any  one  but  he  could  hear  me.  And 
'You  're  an  evil-minded  little  scalawag,'  I  said.  'You  cer- 
tainly don't  know  me  if  you  think  I  've  done  anything  in 
this  world  to  be  ashamed  of.  Go  ahead,'  I  said;  'do  what 
you  please.  Don't  for  one  single  instant  think  that  I  'm 
afraid  of  you  or  that  you  can  do  me  any  harm.'  And  I  left 
him  standing  there,  with  his  grin,  and  flounced  out.  But 
what  do  you  think  of  it,  Gerald?  Wliy  should  Charlie 
Hunt  behave  like  that  to  me?" 

"I  could  judge  better  if  I  knew  what  you  said  to  him  at 
the  veglione." 

' '  It  was  n  't  very  bad.    It  might  provoke  him  for  a  minute 


366  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

to  know  that  it  was  I  who  said  it,  but  it  ought  n  't  to  make 
him  mad  enough  to  bite.  I  went  up  to  him,  and  I  said  close 
to  his  ear,  in  my  good  English : 

'  *  '  You  amusing  little  match-maker, '  I  said,  '  what  do  you 
hope  to  get  from  your  dusky  friend  marrying  that  ahsard 
American?  How  much  do  you  know  about  her?'  I  said. 
*Are  you  even  sure  she  's  as  rich  as  she  seems?'  Then  he 
said,  polite  but  stiff: 

**  'You  have  the  advantage  of  me,  madam,  in  knowing 
what  you  're  talking  about.  Pray  go  on  with  your  tasteful 
pleasantries, '  he  said ;  *  I  'm  thinking  I  've  heard  your  voice 
before.'  Upon  which  I  shut  my  mouth  and  dusted  down 
the  opera-house  on  Italo's  arm.  I  was  crazy  that  evening, 
I  guess,  with  the  crowd  and  excitement  and  all.  When  I 
get  to  training,  I  can't  resist  the  impulse;  I  don't  know 
where  to  stop.  But  that  was  n't  enough  to  make  him  want 
to  stick  a  knife  in  me,  was  it?  It  was  only  fun.  It  was 
true.  He  had  seemed  to  be  trying  to  manage  me  so  's  I  'd 
take  a  fancy  to  Landini,  and  I  couldn't  for  the  life  of 
me  see  what  it  mattered  to  him." 

*'I  tell  Aurora,"  came  in  Estelle,  ''that  a  little  joke  like 
that  would  rankle  terribly  in  any  but  a  real  goodnatured 
man. ' ' 

"My  dear  Aurora,"  said  Gerald,  excited  and  darkly 
flushed,  "your  little  joke  would  not  have  had  to  contain 
a  sting  nearly  as  sharp  to  rouse  against  you  such  vanity 
as  Hunt's,  unless,  let  me  add,  there  were  some  counter- 
weight of  self-interest  to  keep  him  back.  It  is  known  that 
Charlie  has  only  some  parts  and  habits  of  a  human  being, 
not  all.  One  almost,  in  pure  justice,  cannot  blame  him. 
But  scorn  him — oh,  as  for  that !  ...  He  could  be  with  you 
day  after  day,  and  take  all  you  would  give,  and  at  the  end 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  367 

of  a  year  feel  no  tie ;  he  could  hear  you  slandered,  and  not 
take  your  defence ;  he  could  make  a  joke  at  your  expense, 
if  one  came  into  his  mind  that  he  thought  sufficiently  witty, 
and  never  have  a  sense  of  meanness !  He  would  have  had 
nothing  to  overcome.  He  would  only  learn  better  if  he 
perceived  some  loss  of  consideration,  and  consequent  ad- 
vantage to  himself.  That  would  make  him  more  cautious, 
but  not  make  him  more  aware.  And  you  cannot  call  him 
wicked  any  more  than  upon  any  occasion  you  could  call 
him  good.     But  he  's  damnable ! ' ' 

Consuming  anger  lighted  up  Gerald's  face,  his  voice 
trembled  with  intensity  of  feeling,  his  vehemence  now  and 
then  by  jerks  lifted  his  heels  off  the  floor.  *'He  is  not 
properly  a  man  at  all,"  he  went  on  to  characterize  his  old 
schoolmate;  **he  is  just  an  insect  en  grand.  He  satisfies 
his  instincts  precisely  as  an  insectivorous  insect  does — the 
rest  are  there  to  furnish  something  to  his  life.  Nothing 
else,  he  knows  nothing  outside.  Now  that  you  have  of- 
fended him  he  probably  won't  do  you  any  great  harm. 
He  's  not  a  devil,  and  the  world  he  lives  in  does  not  toler- 
ate anything  very  black.  He  'd  injure  himself  in  trying 
to  injure  you.  But  he  '11  do  you  what  harm  he  easily  and 
safely  can.  He  's  nothing  big,  he  could  do  nothing  big,  he 
has  n't  a  passion  in  him.  He  's  like  this :  from  the  moment 
he  had  ceased  to  get  any  good  of  frequenting  your  house, 
even  if  you  had  not  done  the  smallest  thing  to  vex  him,  he 
would  pass  on  a  bit  of  gossip  harmful  to  you  for  the  simple 
glory  of  appearing  for  one  moment  a  little  better  informed 
than  the  rest.  No  more  than  that.  He  would  be  capable 
of  that ;  he  would  n  't  even  have  to  hate  you.  For  Charlie 
Hunt,  as  Leslie  once  perspicaciously  said — Charlie  Hunt 
has  no  real  inside  i" 


368  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

Both  women  sat  staring  at  Gerald,  impressed  by  his  heat. 
When  he  stopped,  they  continued  for  a  minute  in  blank 
silence,  revolving  his  words  and  readjusting  their  esti- 
mates, while  their  eyes  traveled  up  and  down,  up  and  down 
the  room,  drawn  after  his  figure  that  wrathily  paced  the 
floor. 

''How  do  you  suppose  he  found  out  about  the  black 
crow  ?  For  I  'm  perfectly  sure  he  did  n  't  know  me  at  the 
time,"  said  Aurora  presently. 

"That  might  easily  enough  happen  in  some  roundabout 
way,"  said  Estelle,  ''as  long  as  Italo  and  Clotilde  both 
knew  it.  They  might  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag  without 
intending  to.  He  talks  so  much.  Never  knew  such  a 
talker.  But  what  I  want  to  know  is  how  he  knew  your 
name  was  Barton." 

"I  've  told  you  what  I  think.  He  's  heard  you  call  me 
Nell.  Tom,  too,  called  me  Nell.  That  may  have  given  him 
the  hint.  Then  he  simply  opened  lona  Allen's  letter  and 
read  it.  Something  was  in  it,  no  doubt,  that  enabled  him 
to  put  two  and  two  together.  Perhaps  the  name  Bewick, 
lona  would  have  heard  of  that.  She  would  write  to  say 
now  I  'd  climbed  out  of  poverty  and  hard  work  she  knew 
I  wouldn't  mind  lending  a  hand  to  an  old  friend  not  so 
fortunate.  Something  like  that.  She  'd  be  sure  to  whine 
and  beg.  And  Charlie  Hunt,  little  bunch  of  meanness! 
would  imagine  he  could  hold  over  me  the  fact  that  I  was 
poor  once  and  what  he  would  think  low  in  the  scale,  because 
he  thought  I  'd  be  ashamed  of  it.  But  no  such  thing.  If 
I  changed  my  name  coming  here,  it  was  n  't  on  any  such 
account  as  that.  I  'm  gladder  than  ever  now  that  I  told 
Mrs.  Foss  all  about  it.  I  did,  Gerald,  quite  soon  after  we 
first  came,  and  she  said,  though  it  was  in  a  way  a  mistake. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  369 

she  didn't  see  any  real  harm  in  it.  As  long  as  I  'd  begun 
that  way,  she  said,  better  not  make  a  sensation  by  chang- 
ing back  or  saying  anything  about  it.  She  thought  my 
reasons  were  very  natural.  It  was  n't  as  if  I  were  mislead- 
ing anybody,  or  anybody  were  losing  money  by  me.  I  'd 
have  told  you  too,  Gerald,  in  a  minute,  as  far  as  wanting 
just  to  conceal  anything  goes.  But  Gerald  and  I" — she 
seemed  to  place  the  matter  before  an  invisible  judge  and 
jury — ''never  talk  together  of  ugly  things,  do  we,  Gerald? 
He  's  more  delicate-minded  by  a  good  deal  than  I  am. 
With  him  particularly,  though  we  've  been  such  intimate 
friends,  I  shrank  from  it.  There  's  not  much  poetry  about 
me,  I  know  that,  but  there  'd  be  even  less  if  I  had  to  have 
it  known  all  I  Ve  been  through.  And  since  the  first  of  our 
association  we  've  always  lived  in  a  sweet  sort  of  world, 
haven't  we,  Gerald?  I  'd  be  ready,  just  the  same,  to  tell 
you  the  whole  story  any  moment  you  wanted  to  hear.  ..." 
At  Gerald's  swift  instinctive  gesture,  she  went  on  with- 
out further  considering  the  proposition  she  had  made.  * '  As 
I  said  before,  I  don't  know  what  my  own  real  front-door 
name  is.  I  was  born  Goodwin.  I  married  Barton,  but 
Barton  wasn't  Jim's  real  name.  Aurora  Hawthorne  is 
what  I  called  myself  when  we  were  young  ones  and  played 
ladies,  Hat  and  I.  I  came  over  here  to  cut  loose  from  all 
the  bothers  that  had  made  the  last  year  in  Denver  a  night- 
mare. I  did  n't  want  to  be  connected  with  that  dirty  mess 
any  more  in  anybody's  mind  or  my  own.  I  wanted  it  to 
be  like  taking  a  bath  and  starting  new,  feeling  clean. 
Then,  if  I  was  Aurora  Hawthorne,  Hattie  had  to  be 
Estelle  Madison,  which  was  her  name  in  our  old  play- 
days.  Neither  of  us  thought  of  anything  when  we  planned 
it  but  its  being  a  grand  lark.    And  at  first,  in  hotels,  what 


370  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

did  it  matter  ?  But  since  we  've  been  here  and  had  friends, 
we  've  felt  sorry  more  than  once,  because  it  seemed  like  tell- 
ing a  lie.  And  then  we  were  afraid  of  things  that  might 
come  up — just  like  this  that  has,  in  fact.  But  there  was  n  't 
anything  to  do  about  it.  Because  if  we  confessed  now  most 
anybody  would  think  our  reason  for  changing  names  must 
have  been  something  disgraceful,  just  as  it  happens  if  a 
person  who  kills  another  by  accident  goes  and  hides  the 
corpse,  everybody  takes  it  for  granted  it  was  murder.  So, 
if  Charlie  Hunt  tells—" 

'*!  'm  not  nearly  as  much  afraid  of  his  telling  that  you 
are  here  under  an  assumed  name,''  said  Estelle,  ''as  that 
you  were  the  black  crow,  and  it  getting  to  the  ears  of 
Antonia  and  Co." 

''Well,  what  could  they  do?" 

"Spoil  Florence  for  us  pretty  thoroughly,  I  'm  afraid, 
Nell." 

' '  Oh,  nonsense ! ' '  cried  Aurora,  but  after  a  moment  added 
in  a  tone  of  lessened  assurance,  "Bother!"  and  after  an- 
other moment  burst  forth,  with  one  hand  clapped  to  her 
curly  front  hair:  "To  think  that  Tom  was  here  yester- 
day, and  this  had  to  happen  to-day,  when  he  's  half-way  to 
Paris!  I  wish  he  hadn't  gone.  I  wish  I  had  him  here 
to  back  me  up." 

"Why  don't  you  telegraph  for  him?"  suggested  Estelle, 
eagerly. 

"Oh,  no,  I  would  n't  do  that," — Aurora's  vehemence  sub- 
sided,— "it  's  not  important  enough  for  that." 

"My  dear  Aurora,"  said  Gerald,  stopping  in  front  of  her, 
his  whole  person  expressing  hurt  and  remonstrance  little 
short  of  indignation,  "if  your  wishing  for  Doctor  Bewick 
signifies  that  you  do  not  feel  you  have  friends  near  you 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  371 

on  whose  attachment  you  can  count,  surely  you  do  wrong 
to  some  of  us ! "  / 

Though  his  tone  scolded  Aurora  sharply  for  her  lack  of 
faith,  Estelle's  ear  caught  a  trembling  edge  to  his  voice 
expressive  of  deep  feeling.  Estelle  had  the  good  sense  to 
see  that  Gerald  must  inevitably  desire  to  make  more  expo- 
sition of  his  allegiance,  and  the  good  feeling  to  know  that 
this  could  be  done  better  if  she  were  not  present.  Gerald, 
with  his  little  peace-offering,  was  at  the  moment  in  favor 
with  Estelle.  His  explicitness,  his  righteous  violence,  his 
entire  adequacy  on  the  subject  of  Charlie  Hunt,  had 
charmed  her.  She  also  wanted  Aurora  to  have  any  com- 
fort the  hour  might  afford.  She  on  the  spot  feigned  to 
understand  Busteretto's  pawing  of  her  dress  as  an  expres- 
sion of  desire  to  go  into  the  garden  and  see  the  little  spar- 
rows. She  swept  him  up  from  the  floor  with  one  hand  and, 
tucking  him  under  her  arm,  slipped  out  of  the  room. 

Gerald  stood  grasping  his  elbows.  He  had  a  look  like 
that  of  some  man,  known  so  far  as  a  harmless  retiring 
burgher,  about  to  make  a  public  confession  which  will 
change  all,  bringing  his  head  perhaps  to  the  block;  or  the 
look  of  a  man  on  the  verge  of  a  precipice,  still  half  resist- 
ing the  desire  to  jump,  yet  knowing  that  he  will  jump, 
nothing  can  save  him  from  it ;  the  look  of  a  man,  in  fine, 
pregnant  with  intention,  but  walking  in  a  dream. 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute  after  Estelle  left  the 
room.     Then  Gerald  said  very  stiffly,  very  formally: 

' '  If  you  would  do  me  the  honor,  dearest  Aurora,  the  very 
great  honor,  of  consenting  to  take  my  name,  the  right  I 
should  have  to  defend  you  would  be — would  be — part  of 
my  great  happiness.'' 

Aurora  stared  at  him.     Beneath  the  frank  investigation 


Sn  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

of  her  eyes  his  own  dropped  in  modesty  and  insuperable 
embarrassment. 

There  was  another  silence  before  he  added ; 

' '  I  would  try  very  much  to  make  you  happy. ' ' 

Aurora  repressed  the  first  words  that  came  to  her  lips, — 
and  set  aside  the  next  ones  that  rose  in  her  mind  to  say. 
Silence  again  reigned  for  a  moment.  Then,  with  the  seri- 
ous face,  almost  invisibly  rippling,  that  betokened  in  her  a 
secret  and  successful  fight  against  laughter,  she  said  in 
what  she  called  her  good  English,  faintly  reminiscent  of 
Antonia  's : 

"I  am  aware,  my  dear  Gerald,  of  the  honor,  the  very 
great  honor,  you  do  me.  I  thank  you — for  coming  up  to 
the  scratch  like  a  little  man.  But  the  feeling  I  have  that 
I  could  never  be  warthy  of  so  much  honor  deceydes  me  to 
declane.  Gerald,"  she  went  on,  discarding  her  English, 
*' don't  say  another  word!  You  dear,  dear  boy!  The 
things  you  want  to  defend  me  against  don't  amount  to  a 
row  of  pins  when  all  I  've  got  to  do  if  it  comes  to  the  pinch 
is  pack  my  grip  and  clear  out.  Thank  you  all  the  same, 
you  pet,  for  your  kindness.  Don't  think  of  it  again.  I 
am  sort  of  glad,  though,  you  've  got  that  proposal  out  of 
your  system.    Now  we  can  go  back  to  a  sensible  life." 


CHAPTER  XX 

AURORA,  of  the  excellent  three-times-a-day  appe- 
tite, Aurora  of  the  good  sound  slumbers,  picked 
at  her  food  and  slept  brokenly  for  part  of  a  week 
at  that  period,  such  was  her  impatience  at  the  dragging 
length  of  time,  the  emptiness  of  time,  undiversified  and  un- 
enhanced  by  the  presence  in  her  house  of  any  man  devoted 
to  her.  No  odor  of  tobacco  smoke  in  the  air,  no  cane  in 
the  comer;  Tom  on  his  way  to  America,  Gerald  hurt  or 
cross  or  both.  But,  the  ladies  agreed,  when  Aurora  had 
told  Estelle  the  latest  about  Gerald,  her  refusal  could  not 
possibly  occasion  a  cessation  of  relations,  since  his  offer, 
chivalrous  and  unpremeditated,  had  been  at  most  a  'cute  and 
endearing  exhibition  of  character.  His  sensitiveness  could 
not  be  long  recovering,  and  everything  would  be  as  before. 

Aurora  had  been  half  prepared  for  his  staying  away  all 
Saturday;  but  having  been  justified  in  that,  she  the  more 
confidently  looked  for  him  on  Sunday.  It  is  simply  in* 
credible,  as  almost  everybody  has  felt  at  least  once  in  his 
life,  how  long  the  hours  can  be  when  you  are  waiting  for 
something. 

At  the  end  of  a  singularly  unprofitable  day,  Aurora  sat 
in  the  red  and  green  room  with  all  the  windows  open  to  the 
sweet  airs  and  odors  of  IMay,  and  no  lamp  lighted  that 
might  attract  night-moths,  or,  worse,  the  thirst}^  ferocious 
Florentine  zanzara.    She  just  sat,  not  doing  a  thing.     Es- 

373 


Sn  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

telle  after  a  while  left  her,  to  retire  to  her  own  quarters, 
close  the  windows  and  make  a  light. 

Aurora  watched  the  dark  blue  velvet  sky  over  Bello- 
sguardo,  and  thought. 

A  tinkling  of  mandolins,  a  thrumming  of  guitars,  in- 
formed her  of  street-singers  stationed  under  her  windows. 
A  tenor  voice  rose  in  the  song  she  was  so  fond  of.  La  Luna 
Nova,  mingling  at  the  end  of  the  verse  with  other  male 
voices  that  repeated  the  second  half  of  it.  It  sounded  in- 
finitely sweet  out  in  the  warm  spring  night. 

After  La  Luna  Nova  they  sang  Fra  i  rami,  fulgida,  and 
Vedi,  che  hianca  Luna,  and  Dormi  pure,  all  things  she  par- 
ticularly liked.  The  voices  struck  her  as  being  nearer  than 
the  garden  railing ;  she  thought  the  singers  must  have  found 
the  carriage  gate  open  and  slipped  in  without  noise.  She 
bent  forth  a  little,  and  as  she  could  not  see  them  imagined 
them  standing  among  the  shrubs.  She  propped  her  elbows 
on  the  window-rail  and  listened,  grateful  for  this  bath  of 
sweetness  to  her  spirit  after  the  day's  profound  ennui. 

Estelle  came  softly  into  the  dark  room  and  joined  her; 
they  leaned  side  by  side. 

Mi  sono  innamorato  d'una  stella,  Sognai,  lo  Vamero,  one 
sweet  and  sentimental  song  succeeded  the  other. 

Clotilde  had  entered  too,  on  tiptoe,  and  stood  listening, 
just  behind  the  others. 

* '  It  is  a  serenade, ' '  she  whispered.     *  *  It  is  a  compliment. ' ' 

A  serenade!  .  .  .  Aurora  thrilled  with  a  pleasant  sur- 
mise. There  was  only  one  person  in  Florence  of  whom 
she  could  conceive  as  offering  her  the  compliment  of  a 
serenade.     She  listened  with  a  new  keenness  of  pleasure. 

After  the  concert  had  prolonged  itself  through  some 
dozen  pieces — 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  375 

*'You  must  invite  them  to  enter,"  whispered  Clotilde, 
presumably  versed  in  the  ceremonial  of  such  adventures, 
''and  offer  them  something  for  their  tired  throats,  a  little 
wine.  ..." 

*'0h,  you  think  we  ought.  .  .   ?" 

*'But  yes,  it  would  be  courtesy." 

*'Go  you,  then,  Clotilde,  and  show  them  in  and  order  up 
the  wine.     We  '11  be  down  in  a  minute." 

As  they  entered  the  dining-room,  Clotilde  burst  into  a 
peal  of  delighted  laughter  at  the  well-managed  surprise, 
while  Italo  hastened  forward  to  take  Aurora's  hand  and 
bow  over  it  half  way  to  the  floor. 

It  was  within  Aurora's  breast  as  if  in  the  dark  one  had 
clasped  as  she  thought  a  sweetheart,  to  find  when  the  light 
came  that  her  arms  were  entwined  around  the  dancing- 
master,  or  the  tailor.  But  only  for  an  instant.  She  was 
really  touched  and  charmed.  She  became  more  and  more 
eloquent  in  expressing  delight. 

The  singers  were  presented  to  her  individually,  dark- 
eyed  and  smiling  young  Italians  of  the  people,  who  knew 
no  language  but  their  own  Florentine  and  spoke  to  Aurora 
in  that,  not  expecting  to  be  understood  or  to  understand, 
except  through  smiles. 

Clotilde,  busy,  bustling,  poured  for  them  wine  which  she 
knew  to  be  excellent,  and  there  was  a  bright  half  hour  for 
all.  Italo  wore  an  air  relating  him  to  all  the  successful 
heroes  that  have  been,  to  Caesar  as  well  as  to  Paganini,  who 
also  had  a  great  nose.  To  manage  a  thing  well  in  small  jus- 
tifies pride,  giving  earnest  as  it  does  that  a  large  thing,  such 
as  a  siege,  or  a  symphony,  would  by  the  same  capacity  be 
managed  equally  well.  Italo  that  night  carried  his  head 
like  one  who  respects  the  size  of  his  nose.     He  was  quick, 


376  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

he  was  witty,  he  was  amiable.  He  had  about  him  some- 
thing a  little  splendid,  even,  due  to  his  feeling  of  having 
been  splendid — or  nothing — in  his  tribute  to  the  patroness 
from  whose  horn  of  plenty  so  much  had  overflowed  into 
his  hands. 

Aurora  beckoned  Clotilde  aside  to  say  in  her  ear,  ''Will 
you  run  upstairs  like  a  good  girl  and  get  my  porte- 
monnaie?  .  .  .  AYould  it  be  all  right,  do  you  think?" 

Clotilde  made  the  face  and  gesture  of  one  in  doubt,  and 
if  anything  averse,  but  not  insuperably.  The  bounty  of 
royalty,  or  of  rich  Americans,  is  not  felt  as  alms. 

*'Go,  then,"  whispered  Aurora,  "and  get  the  purse  that 
you  '11  find  under  some  silk  stockings  in  my  second  drawer, 
the  little  purse  with  gold  in  it." 

One  of  the  petty  difficulties  of  life  to  Aurora  since  she 
had  lived  in  foreign  lands  had  been  the  so  often  arising 
necessity  to  think  quickly  what  it  would  be  proper  to  give. 
As  the  amount  of  the  gratuity  did  not  much  matter  to  her 
she  had  felt  a  desperate  wish  often  for  the  power  of  divina- 
tion, by  which  to  know  what  would  be  expected.  On  some 
occasions  it  had  seemed  to  Aurora  that  it  would  be  more 
delicate  not  to  offer  money ;  but  experience  had  taught  her 
that  if  she  offered  enough  no  offense  would  be  taken.  These 
singers  were  all  poor  young  fellows,  Clotilde  had  told  her, 
musically  gifted,  but  plying  ordinary  trades.  This  one 
was  a  wood-carver,  that  one  a  gilder.  They  had  been  taught 
by  her  brother  the  fine  songs  composing  that  magnificent 
serenade. 

The  gold  pieces  distributed  among  them  with  words  and 
smiles  of  thanks  were  received  with  such  charming  man- 
ners that  the  giver — for  the  first  moment  faintly  embar- 
rassed— was  soon  set  at  her  ease.    "When  it  came  to  the 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  377 

promoter  and  leader  of  the  serenade,  Aurora  felt  no  more 
uncertainty.  Money  had  so  often  gone  from  her  hand  to 
his.  She  with  generous  ease,  as  if  passing  a  box  of  candy 
to  children,  tendered  him  some  three  or  four  times  as  much 
as  to  the  others. 

But  there  Italo  showed  what  he  was  made  of.  He  took 
a  step  backward  and  stood  with  soldierly  rigidity,  one  hand 
held  with  the  palm  toward  her,  like  a  shield  and  defense 
against  her  intention  to  belittle  him  and  his  token  of  hom- 
age by  a  reward.  His  look  said,  and  said  dramatically, 
that  her  thought  of  him  did  him  wrong ;  it  said  that  he  was 
ashamed  of  her  for  not  knowing  better.  Yet  there  was  no 
real  dissatisfaction  in  it,  since  her  want  of  delicacy  per- 
mitted the  exhibition  of  his  delicacy,  and  afforded  him  the 
opportunity  to  make  that  gesture.  .  .  . 

Her  hand  dropped,  her  whole  being  drooped  and  con- 
fusedly apologized.  Then  the  hand  that  had  interposed 
between  them,  uncompromising  as  a  hot  flat-iron,  changed 
outline  and  pointed  at  a  half  faded  rose  pinned  on  her 
breast.  Quickly  she  unfastened  it  and  held  it  toward  the 
outstretched  hand.  It  was  taken,  it  was  held  to  Italo 's 
lips  while  he  made  one  of  those  deep  bows  that  bent  him 
double;  then  the  stem  of  the  rose  was  pulled  through  his 
buttonhole  and  secured  with  a  pin  from  Aurora's  dress. 
The  great  little  man  shook  his  locks  and  went  on  to  the 
next  subject. 

Aurora  was  impressed.  She  was  pleased  with  Italo  in 
a  new  way,  and  said  to  herself  that  she  must  make  him 
some  rich  little,  but  unobjectionable  little,  gift  to  remember 
this  occasion  by,  a  gold  pencil,  or  a  pearl  scarf-pin,  or  a 
cigar  case  to  be  proud  of. 

She  went  to  bed  with  her  head  full  of  serenade  and 


378  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  i 

serenaders,  her  head  all  lighted  up  inside  with  the  glory  ] 
of  having  been  the  object  of  a  tribute  so  flattering.  When  | 
after  reading  her  chapter  she  blew  out  the  candle,  she  knew  | 
that  to-night  she  should  sleep,  and  make  up  for  the  two  ' 
bad  nights  just  passed.  If  Gerald  were  so  foolish  as  to  feel  j 
annoyed  and  wish  to  stay  away,  he  would  just  have  to  feel  i 
annoyed  and  stay  away  until  he  felt  different.  His  mood  | 
couldn't  help  wearing  off  in  time.  But  it  did  seem  to  \ 
her  extraordinary  that  even  now,  after  knowing  him  so  ; 
long,  she  could  tell  so  little  of  the  workings  of  Gerald's 
mind.  All,  of  course,  because  he  was — such  a  considerable  j 
part  of  him — a  foreigner. 

i 

Aurora  was  one  of  those  healthy  sleepers  who  have  no        ; 
care  to  guard  themselves  against  the  morning  light.     Her         i 
windows  stood  open,  her  bed  was  protected  from  winged        j 
intruders  by  a  veil  of  white  netting  gathered  at  the  top 
into  the  great  overshadowing  coronet. 

She  was  in  the  fine  midst  of  those  sweetest  slumbers  that         ' 
come  after  a  pearly  wash  of  dawn  has  cleaned  sky  and  hill- 
tops from  the  last  smoke-stain  of  the  night,  when  a  sense        i 
of  some  one  else  in  the  room  startled  her  awake.     There        j 
stood  near  the  door  of  her  dressing-room  an  unknown  fe- 
male, wearing  intricate  gold  ear-pendants  and  a  dingy  cot- 
ton dress  without  any  collar. 

^^Chi  e  voif"  inquired  Aurora,  lifting  her  head. 

*'I  am  the  Ildegonda,"  answered  the  woman,  whose  smile  ] 
and  everything  about  her  apologized,  and  deprecated  dis-  1 
pleasure.  She  must  be  the  kitchen-maid,  fancied  Aurora,  ; 
engaged  by  Clotilde,  and  not  supposed  to  show  her  nose  ; 
above  the  subterranean  province  of  the  kitchen.  i 

''There  is  the  signorino  down  in  the  garden,"  Ildegonda        \ 

] 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  379 

acquitted  herself  of  the  charge  laid  upon  her  by  the  donor 
of  the  silver  franc  still  rejoicing  her  folded  fingers,  ''who 
says  if  you  will  have  the  amiability  to  place  yourself  one 
moment  at  the  window  he  would  desire  to  say  a  word  to 
you. ' ' 

The  signorino.  That  had  become  the  informal  title  by 
which  the  servants  announced  a  guest  who  was  let  in  so 
very  frequently.  Aurora  understood  finestra,  window,  and 
dire  una  parola,  to  say  a  word,  and  then  that  the  signorino 
was  giu  in  giardino. 

"All  right."  Aurora  nodded  to  the  Ildegonda,  inviting 
her  by  a  motion  of  the  hand  to  go  away  again. 

Aurora  rose  and  softly  closed  the  door  which,  when  open, 
made  an  avenue  for  sound  from  her  room  to  Estelle's. 
She  slipped  her  arms  into  a  sky-blue  dressing-gown,  and 
with  a  heart  spilling  over  with  playful  joy,  eyes  spilling 
over  with  childish  laughter,  went  to  look  out  of  the  win- 
dow, the  one  farthest  from  Estelle's  side  of  the  house. 

''Good  morning!  Good  morning!"  came  on  the  instant 
from  the  waiting,  upturned  face  below.  "Forgive  me  for 
rousing  you  so  early,"  was  said  in  a  voice  subdued  so  as 
to  reach,  if  possible,  no  other  ears,  "but  you  promised  you 
would  go  with  me  one  day  to  Vallombrosa,  and  one  has  to 
start  early,  for  it  is  far.     Will  you  come  ? ' ' 

"Will  I  come?  Will  I  come?  Wait  and  see!  Got  your 
horses  and  carriage  ? ' ' 

"Standing  at  the  gate.  How  long  will  it  take  you  to  get 
ready?" 

"Oh,  I  11  hurry  like  anything." 

"  'Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in  praying. 
Few  beads  are  best  when  once  we  go  a  Maying.'  " 


380  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

**I  won't  pray,  I  won't  put  on  beads.  But,  see  here, 
what  about  what  they  call  in  this  country  my  collation? 
You  know  I  'm  a  gump  on  an  empty  stomach." 

**We  '11  have  our  coffee  on  the  road,  at  a  little  inn -table 
out  of  doors  in  the  sunrise." 

**Fine!  By -by.  See  you  again  in  about  twenty  min- 
utes." 

Every  fiber  composing  Aurora  twittered  with  a  distinct 
and  separate  glee  while  she  hurried  through  her  toilet,  a 
little  breathless,  a  little  distracted,  and  mortally  afraid 
Estelle  would  hear  and  come  to  ask  questions.  From  her 
wardrobe  she  drew  the  things  best  suited  to  the  day  and 
her  humor ;  a  white  India  silk  all  softly  spotted  with  apple- 
blossoms,  of  which  she  had  said  when  she  considered  ac- 
quiring it  that  it  was  too  light-minded  for  her  age  and 
size,  but  yet,  vaulting  over  those  objections,  had  bought 
and  had  made  up  according  to  its  own  merits  and  not  hers ; 
a  white  straw  hat  with  truncated  steeple  crown,  the  fash- 
ion of  that  year,  small  brim  faced  with  moss-green  velvet, 
bunch  of  green  ostrich-tips,  right  at  the  front,  held  in  place 
by  band  and  buckle. 

Her  parasol  was  a  thing  of  endless  lace  ruffles,  her  wrap 
a  thing  of  vanity. 

She  passed  out  through  the  dressing-room,  she  crept 
down  the  stairs,  laughing  at  her  own  remark  that  it  was 
awfully  like  an  elopement.  The  house  was  not  yet  astir; 
only  the  Ildegonda  sweeping  out  the  kitchen,  and  old 
Achille  out  in  the  garden  picking  early  insects  off  his 
plants. 

At  the  door  she  greeted  Gerald  with  all  the  joy  of  meet- 
ing again  a  playmate.  He  had  on  the  right  playmate's 
face.     She  gave  him  both  hands,  and  he  clasped  them  to 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  381 

the  elbow,  shaking  them  with  satisfactory  fire,  while  their 
eyes  laughed  a  common  recognition  of  the  adventure  as  a 
lark. 

At  the  gate  waited  the  open  carriage,  a  city-square 
cabriolet,  but  clean  and  in  repair,  drawn  by  two  strong 
little  brown  horses,  with  rosettes  and  feathers  in  their 
jingling  bridles,  ribbons  in  their  whisking  braided  tails, 
and  driven  by  a  brown  young  man  of  twenty,  with  a 
feather,  too,  in  his  hat,  which  he  wore  aslant  and  crushed 
down  over  his  right  ear.  To  make  the  excursion  pleasanter 
to  himself,  he  was  by  permission  taking  along  a  companion 
of  his  own  age,  who  occupied  the  low  seat  beside  his  ele- 
vated one,  and  in  contrast  with  his  vividness,  the  pride  of 
life  expressed  by  his  cracking  whip,  the  artistically  singular 
sounds  he  made  in  his  throat  to  encourage  the  horses,  was 
a  washed-out  personality,  good  at  most  to  do  the  jumping 
off  and  on,  to  readjust  harness,  to  investigate  the  brake, 
or  to  offer  alms  from  the  lady  in  the  carriage  to  the  old 
man  breaking  stones  in  the  roadside  dust. 

They  were  off;  they  sped  through  the  gate  of  the  Holy 
Cross,  the  fresh  young  horses  making  excellent  time.  Out 
of  the  city,  along  the  river,  across  it,  past  hamlets,  past 
villas,  past  churches  and  camposanti,  past  vineyards  and 
poderi  and  peasants'  dwellings.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  to  Aurora  that  never  had  there  been  such  a 
day,  so  fresh  and  unstained  and  perfect,  a  day  inspiring 
such  gladness  in  being.  The  sense  of  that  priceless  boon, 
the  freedom  of  a  whole  long  day  together,  elated  her  with 
a  joy  that  knew  only  one  shadow,  and  that  unremarked  for 
the  first  half  of  it — the  shortness  of  the  longest  earthly  day. 

Now  the  horses  slowed  in  their  pace;  the  ascent  had  be- 
gun among  the  shady  chestnut-trees.     The  driver's  friend 


382  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

scrambled  down  and  plodded  alongside  the  horses;  the 
driver  himself  descended  and  walked,  cheering  on  his  beasts 
with  noises  that  nearly  killed  Aurora,  she  declared. 

As  it  took  them  between  four  and  five  hours  to  reach 
their  destination,  and  as  Aurora  chattered  all  the  time, 
with  little  intervals  of  talk  by  Gerald,  to  report  their  con- 
versation is  unfeasible.  Aurora,  wanting  in  all  that  varied 
knowledge  which  those  who  are  fond  of  reading  get  from 
books,  had  yet  a  lot  to  say  that  some  unprejudiced  ears 
found  worth  while.  The  dwellers  upon  earth  and  their 
ways  had  for  her  an  immense  and  piercing  interest.  In 
vain  had  circumstances  circumscribed  her  early  life :  neigh- 
bors, Sunday-school  teacher,  minister,  village  drunkard, 
fourth  of  July  orator,  had  furnished  comedy  for  her  every 
day.  The  human  happenings  falling  within  her  ken  became 
good  stories  in  their  passage  through  a  mind  quick  in  its 
perception  of  inconsequence,  faulty  logic,  pretense,  all  that 
constitutes  the  funny  side  of  things.  Aurora's  love  of  the 
funny  story  amounted  to  a  fault.  Aurora  was  not  always 
above  promoting  laughter  by  narratives  no  subtler  than  a 
poke  in  your  ribs.  Aurora,  in  the  vein  of  funny  stories, 
could  upon  occasion  be  Falstaffian.  But  only  one  half 
of  humanity  had  a  chance  to  find  out  the  latter.  When 
in  company  of  the  other  sex,  by  instinct  and  upbringing 
alike  she  minded  her  Ps  and  Qs. 

Gerald  said  that  Aurora  on  that  day  regaled  him  with 
over  a  thousand  comic  anecdotes,  this  being  the  expression 
of  her  frolicsome  and  exuberant  mood.  He  furnished  her 
with  a  few  to  add  to  her  store,  Italian  ones,  proving  that 
he  was  not  wholly  without  some  share  of  her  gift  in  that 
line;  but  he  now  and  then  politely  stopped  her  flow  and 
led  her  to  admire  with  him  the  beauties  of  the  road,  natural 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  383 

or  architectural,  a  distant  glimpse,  a  form,  a  fragrance. 
He  would  explain  things  to  her,  impart  scraps  of  pertinent 
history,  which  she  would  appear  trying  to  appreciate  and 
imprint  on  her  memory. 

As  he  leaned  back  in  the  carriage  at  her  side,  bathed 
in  the  wavering  green  and  gold  light  of  the  chestnut-trees 
among  which  the  road  wended,  a  recent  description  of  him, 
which  she  had  said  over  to  herself,  to  (lualify  it  by  miti- 
gating adjectives,  seemed  to  her  to  have  become  altogether 
unfair.  Gerald's  face,  beneath  the  brim  of  his  pliable  white 
straw,  bent  down  over  the  eyes  and  turned  up  at  the  back, 
Italian  style,  did  not  look  sickly.  On  the  contrary,  it 
looked  better  and  stronger  since  his  illness;  he  even  had  a 
little  color.  He  was  not  sad-eyed,  either,  that  she  could 
see,  though  his  eyes  must  always  be  the  thoughtful  kind. 
As  for  spindle-shanked,  he  filled  his  loose  woolen  clothes 
better  than  before. 

He  had  made  himself  modestly  fine  for  the  day  to  be 
spent  in  company  of  the  fair :  he  had  on  a  necktie  which,  if 
expressive  of  mood,  declared  his  outlook  on  life  to  be  cheer- 
fuller:  it  was  a  vibrant  tone  of  violet  that  accorded  agree- 
ably with  his  gray  suit.  A  rose-geranium  leaf  and  a  stem 
or  two  of  rusty-gold  gaggia,  odors  that  he  loved,  occupied 
at  his  buttonhole  the  place  of  those  decorations  which  dis- 
tinguished elderly  gentlemen  are  sometimes  envied  for,  and 
which — it  is  a  commonplace — are  not  worthy  to  be  ex- 
changed for  the  flower  Youth  sticks  at  his  coat  to  aid  him 
to  charm. 

It  grew  very  warm;  the  way,  though  pleasant,  was  be- 
ginning to  seem  long  when  they  arrived.  The  old  monas- 
tery, now  a  school  of  forestry;  the  Cross  of  Savoy,  where 
pilgrims  rest   and   dine,   gleamed   white   in   the   cloudless 


384  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

noon,  amid  the  century-old  trees  that  long  ago,  before 
Dante's  time  even,  earned  for  the  spot  its  beautiful  name 
of  Vallombrosa,  Umbrageous  Vale. 

Aurora  was  by  this  time  starving  again,  and  Gerald 
knew  the  pleasure  of  purveying  to  the  demands  of  a  stom- 
ach as  untroubled  by  any  back-thought  relating  to  its  func- 
tioning as  that  of  a  big  bloomy  goddess  seated  before  a 
meal  of  ambrosia.  He  suggested  that  she  accompany  her 
artichoke  omelet,  her  cutlet  with  the  sauce  of  anchovy, 
parsley  and  mustard,  by  a  little  red  wine.  But  she  would 
not,  even  to  be  companionable.  She  could  never  bring  her- 
self to  touch  wine,  any  more  than  to  use  powder  on  her 
cheeks,  which  in  truth  did  not  need  it,  or  a  pencil  to  her 
eyebrows,  which  would  have  looked  better  for  that  accentua- 
tion. 

In  a  state  of  physical  and  mental  well-being  such  as  can 
be  bought  only  by  an  early  rising,  an  inconsiderable  break- 
fast, a  long  ride  in  the  warmth  of  Tuscan  mid-May,  an 
abundant  and  repairing  repast,  taken,  amid  sweet  conven- 
tual coolness,  in  company  which  leaves  nothing  to  wish 
for  beyond  it,  they  went  forth  to  spend  the  time  that  must 
be  granted  the  horses  for  rest  before  the  return  to  Flor- 
ence. 

After  loitering  in  the  inn  garden,  they  went  to  look  at 
the  memorials  relating  to  Saint  John  Gualberto,  founder 
of  the  monastery.  She  listened  to  the  picturesque  history 
of  his  life,  death,  and  miracles,  but  was  not  to  be  rendered 
sober-minded  by  any  such  thing.  In  the  midst  of  Gerald's 
instructive  account  of  the  holy  abbot's  endeavors  to  purify 
the  monastic  orders  from  the  stain  of  simony,  her  hand 
clutched  his,  and  doing  a  delicate  cake-walk  she  compelled 
him  along  with  her,  announcing,  ''The  Hornet  and  the 


'Come,   let  us   rcasDU    i..l:.i  li.  i ,    Aurora" 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  385 

Bumble-bee  went  walking  hand  in  hand!"  Fancying  this 
prank  not  to  have  been  without  success,  she  next  performed 
an  improvised  pas  seul  illustrative  of  the  text,  ''The  moun- 
tains shall  skip  like  little  lambs!" 

There  was  artfulness,  as  has  been  suspected,  in  Aurora's 
frequent  jests  upon  her  size.  Their  gross  exaggeration  was 
fondly  counted  upon  to  make  her  appear  sylphlike  by  com- 
parison with  the  images  she  raised. 

To  relieve  the  seriousness  of  Short  Lessons-  on  Great  Sub- 
jects she  presently  invented  interrupting  them  at  in- 
tervals to  introduce  Gerald  and  herself  to  some  rock  or 
tree  or  mountain,  as  if  it  had  been  a  poor  person  standing 
by  neglected.  ''Jack  Sprat,"  she  said,  "and  The  Fat!" 
"A  busted  cream-puff,"  she  said,  "and  a  drink  of  water!" 
Further,  "Dino  and  Retta!"  Finally,  with  imagination 
running  dry,  "Gerry  and  Rory!" 

Yes,  by  such  little  jokes — what  Leslie  called  Jokes  of  the 
First  Category,  Aurora  sought  to  enliven  the  hour  for 
Gerald.  He  never  omitted  to  laugh,  without  being  able 
to  enter  enough  into  her  fun  to  join  her  in  the  same 
species.  An  incapacity.  Still,  there  was  no  disguising  the 
basking  enjoyment  possessing  him,  his  love  of  her  gaiety, 
if  not  at  all  moments  of  the  form  it  took. 

Finding  it  entrancing  up  there,  they  decided  not  to 
start  for  home  till  the  last  minute  possible.  A  limit  was 
set  to  the  time  they  might  linger  by  the  necessity  for  some 
degree  of  daylight  in  making  the  descent.  From  the  edge 
of  the  curving  road  the  mountain  dropped  away  without 
the  protection  of  any  parapet. 

When  they  had  found  their  ideal  place  in  which  to  sit 
on  the  warm  earth  in  the  shade  and  look  off  over  valleys 
and  mountains  into  az^ire  space,  Aurora  at  last  consented 


386  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

to  be  still.     She  became  dreamy,  appeared  sweetly  fatigued, 
and  was  for  a  long  time  mute. 

Though  the  mere  quality  of  her  voice  still  had  power  to 
stir  Gerald's  heart  to  pleasure,  yet  to  be  silent  with  Au- 
rora was  pleasure  of  a  different  order  from  hearing  her 
voice  of  rough  velvet  recount  preposterous  events  or  pro- 
pound humorous  riddles. 

It  looked  from  where  they  sat  as  if  the  land  had  at  some 
time  been  fluid,  and  been  tossing,  green  and  purple,  in  a 
majestic  storm,  when  some  great  word  of  command  had 
fixed  it  in  the  midst  of  motion,  and  the  waves  became 
Apennines;  then  in  an  hour  of  peculiar  affection  for  that 
plot  of  the  earth  a  faultless  artist  from  the  skies  had  been 
set  to  oversee  nature  and  man  at  their  work  there,  and 
prevent  the  intrusion  of  one  note  not  in  harmony  with  his 
most  distinguished  dream. 

' '  If  Italy  should  perish  and  all  else  remain, ' '  said  Gerald, 
whose  eyes  had  been  feasting  on  beauties  of  line  and  color 
such  as  he  conceived  were  not  to  be  found  outside  this 
land  of  his  idolatry,  ^'the  world  would  be  irreparably  im- 
poverished. If  all  the  world  besides  should  perish  and 
Italy  remain,  the  world  could  still  boast  of  infinite  riches. ' ' 

Aurora  gave  a  nod  of  at  least  partial  assent.  She  was 
growing  accustomed  to  the  thought  that  Italy  was  the  fair- 
est of  countries  and  Florence  the  fairest  of  Italian  cities. 
She  found  herself  beginning  to  like  this  creed. ' 

In  the  quiet  that  descended  upon  them  the  native  piety 
in  each  groped  for  some  acknowledgment  to  make  of  his 
consciousness  at  the  moment  of  unusual  blessing.  In  him 
it  took  the  form  of  a  renewal,  more  devoted  perhaps  than 
ever,  of  the  determination  to  maintain  an  uncompromising 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  387 

purity  of  aim  in  his  work.  The  incomparable  scene  stimu- 
lated within  him  a  sense  of  power  to  produce  things  rival- 
ing what  lay  under  his  eyes;  he,  atom,  rivaling  his  Maker 
in  the  creation  of  beauty.  In  her  it  was  a  determination 
of  greater  loyalty  toward  the  Provider  of  undeservedly 
happy  days  to  man,  whose  heart  is  wicked  from  his  birth, 
as  her  mother  had  been  wont  to  tell  her. 

Hearing  her  hum  very  softly  to  herself,  he  asked  what 
she  sang.  She  said,  her  mother's  favorite  hymn,  and  gave 
it  aloud,  with  the  words : 

Father,  what  e'er  of  earthly  bliss 
Thy  sovereign  will  denies, 
Accepted  at  Thy  throne  of  grace 
Let  this  petition  rise : 

Give  me  a  calm,  a  thankful  heart, 
From  every  murmur  free; 
The  blessings  of  Thy  grace  impart 
And  make  me  live  to  Thee. 

Like  one  with  an  impeccable  ear,  but  with  small  esteem 
for  his  gifts  as  a  singer,  Gerald  murmured  the  melody  after 
her,  just  audibly,  to  show  he  cared  to  have  his  share  in 
her  memories. 

But  mainly  the  two  of  them  thought  of  each  other. 

Gerald,  regarding  Aurora's  hands  as  they  lay  in  her  lap 
— innocent-looking,  loyal-looking,  rather  large  hands,  which 
during  his  illness  he  had  liked  to  think  were  ]\Iadonna 
hands,  but  when  seen  in  health  they  were  not,  really — was 
amazed  to  remember  the  day  when  their  making  passes  over 
his  face  had  filled  him  with  perverse  repugnance. 

And  Aurora,  remembering  the  first  time  she  had  seen 


388  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

Gerald  and  nicknamed  him  Stickly-prickly,  while  feeling 
him  more  than  three  thousand  miles  removed  from  her, 
was  amazed.  .  .  . 

So  they  sat,  two  little  dots,  two  trembling  threads, 
against  the  screen  of  the  universe  and  eternity,  and  their 
two  selves,  under  the  spell  of  a  world-old  enchantment, 
loomed  so  large  to  each  that  the  universal  and  the  eternal 
were  to  them  two  little  dots,  two  threads. 

Gerald  saw  how  the  afternoon  was  mellowing  toward 
sunset.  .  .  .  And  the  important  things  of  the  day  had 
not  been  touched  upon. 

Our  hero  had  traversed  great  spaces  in  the  region  of 
sentiment  during  the  two  days  allowed  the  Hermitage 
to  stand  or  crumble  without  him.  The  first  of  them  had 
been  spent  far  from  it,  even  as  Aurora  supposed,  for  the 
sake  of  letting  the  impression  of  having  been  laughed  at 
wear  off  a  little.  Already  for  some  time  before  that  forced 
climax  Gerald  had  been  haunted  by  the  feeling  that  he 
ought  to  offer  himself  to  Aurora,  as  it  were  to  regularize 
his  status  in  her  house.  After  hanging  around  as  he  had 
been  doing,  one  might  almost  say  that  good  manners  de- 
manded it.  Her  fashion,  on  that  evening  in  the  garden, 
of  treating  the  idea  that  he  could  be  enamoured  of  her 
assured  him  that  she  would  refuse.  He  would  have  done 
his  duty,  and  they  would  continue  to  drift,  he  shutting 
his  eyes  to  the  penalty  awaiting  his  self-indulgence,  the 
taxes  of  pain  rolling  up  for  the  hour  when  her  necessary 
departure  would  involve  the  uprooting  of  every  last  little 
flower  in  that  wretched  garden  of  his  heart.  With  such  a 
mental  pattern  of  the  future  he  had  gone  to  bed  at  the 
end  of  the  first  day. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  389 

On  the  next  morning  something  perhaps  in  deep  dreams 
which  he  did  not  remember,  or  in  the  happy  manner  of 
the  new  day  lighting  a  scarlet  geranium  on  the  terrace 
ledge,  or  simply  perhaps  the  whisper  of  an  angel,  had  ef- 
fected a  change.  A  heart-throb,  a  stroke  of  magic,  had  so 
lifted  him  up  that  over  the  top  of  the  wall  edging  the  road 
of  life  for  him  he  had  seen  a  thrilling  garden  outstretched, 
smiling  in  the  sun,  a  sight  that  so  enkindled  him  with  the 
witchery  of  its  promises  that  he  felt  he  should  seek  for  a 
way  into  that  garden  till  he  found  it ;  should,  if  necessary, 
demolish  the  wall. 

That  day  he  went  walking  on  the  hills  beyond  Settignano, 
and  the  new  light,  the  intoxication,  persisted — the  vision  of 
himself  as  Aurora's  lover.  Why  not?  An  escape  from 
the  past,  a  different  adventure  from  all  prefigured  in  his 
dull  expectations  before.  ...  In  his  theory  of  living 
Gerald  had  always  admitted  the  gallant  advisability  of 
burning  ships.  There  was  room  in  his  theory  of  liv- 
ing for  just  such  a  divergence  from  design  as  he  now  med- 
itated. When  the  call  comes,  summon  it  to  never  so  im- 
probable places,  the  poet  and  artist  obeys.  He  had  gone 
to  bed  on  the  second  night  with  these  thoughts  and  a  plan 
for  the  morrow. 

Now  that  morrow  was  wearing  to  an  end  and  all  the 
floating  splendid  courageous  thoughts  and  feelings,  brave 
in  the  assurance,  along  with  the  determination,  of  victory, 
must  be  somehow  caught  and  compressed  and  turned  into 
the  language — how  poverty-stricken,  how  stale ! — of  a  pro- 
posal of  marriage;  even  as  a  great  variegated,  gold-shot, 
butterfly-tinted,  cloud-light  tissue  of  the  Orient  is  drawn 
into  a  colorless  whipcord  twist  that  it  may  pass  through 
a  little  ring. 


390  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

As  he  revolved  in  his  mind  what  he  should  say  to  start 
with,  Gerald  saw  appropriateness  for  the  first  time  in  the 
methods  of  the  historic  Gaul,  who  seized  by  her  hair  the 
charming  creature  whom  he  felt  allied  to  him  by  deep 
things,  seated  her  on  the  horse  before  him,  and  rode  away. 
But  what  he  would  have  liked  so  much  the  best  would  have 
been  to  lay  his  head  in  Aurora's  willing  lap,  embrace  her 
knees  tenderly,  and  have  her  understand  all  without  a  word 
being  spoken. 

Now  he  cleared  his  throat,  took  a  reasonable  air,  a  tone 
almost  of  banter,  to  say  what,  influenced  by  the  long  prece- 
dent of  their  converse  together,  he  could  say  only  in  that 
manner,  covering  up  as  best  he  could  the  fact  that  his  heart 
trembled  and  burned. 

''Shall  we  resume  our  conversation  of  last  Friday?"  he 
asked,  with  a  fine  imitation  of  the  comradely  ease  which 
had  marked  all  their  intercourse  that  day. 

He  was  looking  over  the  valley,  as  if  still  preoccupied 
with  its  beauty  rather  than  with  her. 

Thus  misled,  she  did  not  guess  right.     She  said : 

''About  Charlie,  you  mean?  Just  fancy,  I  haven't 
thought  of  him  once  all  day!  Little  varmint!  Don't  I 
wish  I  had  the  spanking  of  him!  But  I  guess  it  would 
lame  my  arm." 

"Not  about  Charlie.  I  asked  would  you  marry  me,  and 
you  said  you  would  not.     Will  you  to-day  ? ' ' 

"Not  for  a  farm!"  she  answered,  with  emphasis  equal  to 
her  precipitation. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked,  undisconcerted. 

"Because." 

"Come,  let  us  reason  together,  Aurora."  He  changed 
position,  arranging  himself  on  his  elbow  so  as  to  be  able 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  391 

to  look  at  her.  His  eyes  were  steady.  * '  For  a  man  to  ask 
a  woman  to  marry  him  is  of  course  the  greatest  piece  of 
impertinence  of  which  he  could  be  guilty.  But  from  such 
impertinences,  Auroretta,  has  been  derived  every  beautiful 
thing  that  has  blessed  our  poor  world  from  the  beginning. 
No  man  is  good  enough  for  any  woman,  let  that  stand  for 
an  axiom.  But  there  again,  Auroretta,  it  's  not  according 
to  merit  that  those  rewards,  gentle  and  beautiful  ladies, 
are  dispensed.  I  have  rather  less  to  offer  than  any  man 
in  the  world,  but  I  am  bold  because  you,  dear,  are  just  the 
one  to  be  blind.'* 

"Oh,  it  's  not  that,  of  course,"  said  Aurora,  hurriedly. 

** Don't  suppose  for  a  moment  that  I  am  troubled  by  the 
size  of  your  fortune  or  the  size  of  my  own.  You  haven't 
any  money,  dear.  Others  have  your  money.  I  have  al- 
most to  laugh  at  the  splendid  speed  with  which  that  open 
granary  of  yours  will  be  eaten  clean  by  all  the  birds  coming 
to  pick  one  seed  at  a  time." 

''You  needn't  laugh,  then.  Some  of  it  is  going  to  be 
pinned  to  me  solid,  so  that  nothing  can  get  it  away  from 
me,  not  even  I  myself." 

''I  am  sorry  to  hear  it.  The  other  was  so  complete. 
Well,  if  you  had  nothing,  I  should  still  have  just  enough 
to  keep  us  from  hunger,  though  perhaps  not  from  cold  in 
these  dear  old  stone  houses  of  Italy.  And  you — I  know  you 
well  enough  to  be  sure  of  it — you  are  exactly  the  one  to 
learn  how  much  there  can  be  in  life  besides  its  luxuries. 
Since  my  illness,  too,  Aurora,  let  me  confide  to  you,  there 
have  been  in  me  reawakenings.  ...  I  have  felt  the  be- 
ginning— I  am  speaking  with  reference  to  my  work, — I 
have  felt  intimations — No,  it  is  too  difficult  to  express 
without  seeming  to  boast,  which  is  horribly  unlucky.     In 


392  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

short,  I  have  felt  that  I  might  do  the  turn  still  of  forcing 
a  careless  generation  to  pay  attention." 

*'0h,  Gerald,  how  nice  it  is  to  have  you  say  that!"  she 
warmly  rejoiced.     ^'I  'm  so  glad  to  hear  it!" 

**Now  tell  me  why  it  is  you  won't  marry  me.  Stop, 
dear.  Don't  say  because  you  are  not  in  love  with  me.  I 
have  difficulty  in  seeing  how  any  one  in  her  right  senses 
could  be  in  love  with  me.  It  would  be  enough,  dear,  that 
you  should  be  to  me  as  you  were  during  those  happy, 
happy  days  when  I  was  so  beastly  ill.  You  are  so  gen- 
erous, it  would  be  merely  fulfilling  your  nature.  And  I, 
upon  my  word,  dear,  would  try  to  deserve  it.  I  would 
give  you  reason  to  be  kind.  I  am  not  without  scraps  of 
honor — wholly;  I  would  do  my  best  to  make  you  happy." 

**No," — she  shook  her  head  decidedly, — ''no,  Gerry,"  she 
added,  to  take  the  sharp  edge  off  her  refusal,  "no,  Gerry; 
Rory  won't." 

''You  have  only  to  lose  by  it,  that  is  obvious,  and  I  to 
gain,  and  nothing  could  equal  the  indecency  of  insistence 
on  my  part;  but  I  feel  that  I  am  going  to  persist  to  the 
point  of  persecution.  You  are  fond  of  me,  you  know.  I 
only  dare  to  say  you  are  fond  of  me  because  you  have  said 
it  yourself  more  than  once.  And  you  are  always  sincere, 
and  I  would  n  't  be  likely  to  forget.  Now,  if  you  are  fond 
of  me, — very,  very  fond,  you  have  said  repeatedly, — why 
do  you  refuse?  I  wouldn't  be  a  bore  of  a  husband,  I 
promise.     I  would  leave  you  a  great  deal  of  liberty." 

"No,  Geraldino;  no." 

"You  needn't  tell  me  there  's  somebody  else.  I  don't 
believe  it.  Though  you  feel  only  fondness  for  me,  I  know 
that  you  are  not  in  love  with  anybody  else.  When  one  is 
in  love,  there  is  no  room  in  life  for  such  warm  and  dear 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  393 

friendship  as  you  have  frankly  shown  me.  It  's  that,  after 
all,  which  has  given  me  courage.'' 

* '  No,  no ;  there  's  nobody  else. ' ' 

''Well,  then,  why  can't  you?     Why  won't  you?" 

"I — "  She  hesitated,  as  if  to  think.  There  was  a  si- 
lence. Then  she  asked  slowly,  like  one  who  finds  some 
difficulty  in  laying  her  tongue  on  the  right  words:  "Do 
you  remember  all  those  things  you  said  that  evening  in  the 
garden,  the  night  you  came  in  to  meet  Tom  for  the  first 
time  ?  How  you  would  n  't  for  anything  in  the  whole  world 
let  yourself  get  tangled  up  again  with  caring  for  a  per- 
son?" 

"Perfectly.  I  could  only  picture  it  as  meaning  more  of 
trouble  and  unrest.  But  things  change,  dear.  We  change. 
There  has  taken  place  in  me  since  that,  no  matter  for  what 
reason,  an  increase  of  self-confidence  and  confidence  in  fate 
such  as  turns  men  into  nuisances  or  makes  them  successful. 
In  the  last  twenty-four  hours  particularly.  Now,  as  I  look 
at  the  inconvenience  of  getting  tangled  up  again  with  car- 
ing for  a  person,  I  find  I  don't  mean  at  all  to  suffer.  I 
mean  to  bother  you  until  you  say  yes,  and  then  to  be  happy. 
You  could  never  wilfully  torment  me,  I  know ;  you  are  in- 
capable of  it.  Then,  when  you  have  graciously  consented 
to  marry  me,  I  feel  as  if  I  might  build  up  my  life  on  new 
lines." 

"I  can't,  Geraldino;  I  can't." 

"You  can't.  So  you  have  said.  And  I  have  asked  you 
to  tell  me  your  reasons,  that  I  may  combat  them  one  by 
one." 

"It  's  no  use.     We  're  too  different." 

' '  That  we  are  different,  thank  God !  is  a  reason  for  and 
not  against." 


394  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

**No,  no;  not  when  it  's  sucli  a  huge  difference.  We  're 
like — a  bird  and  a  fish." 

** Don't  call  me  a  fish.  I  object." 
*'We  don't  think  the  same  about  hardly  anything." 
'*But  we  feel  alike  on  everything  of  importance." 
"There  's  hardly  a  thing  I  do  that  's  quite  right  as  you 
see  it.  No,  don't  take  the  trouble  to  contradict  me;  let 
me  do  the  talking  for  a  minute.  You  're  so  critical  and  so 
conventional  and  so  correct!  No  matter  how  much  you 
say  you  aren't,  you  are.  And  while  we  're  like  this  I 
don't  have  to  care.  I  rather  enjoy  shocking  you.  And 
while  I  'm  none  of  your  business,  you  don't  have  to  care 
what  I  do  or  what  I  'm  like.  We  can  have  our  fun  and 
be  awfully  fond  of  each  other,  and  it  's  all  serene  and  right. 
But  if  I  were  Mrs.  Gerald  Fane,  all  my  faults  and  short- 
comings, my  not  knowing  the  things  that  everybody  in  your 
society  knows,  my  not  having  any  elegant  accomplishments, 
would  show  up  so  glaring  that  I  should  know  you  must  be 
mortified.     You  couldn't  help  it." 

' '  Stop,  dear !  You  enrage  me.  You  put  me  beside  my- 
self. You  are  so  superficial.  And  dense.  And  you  hold 
me  up  to  myself  in  the  features  of  a  beastly  cad !  I  won 't 
have  it.  For  one  thing,  let  me  tell  you  that  if  I  were  the 
Lord  Ronald  ]\Iacdonald  of  that  song  we  've  heard  Miss 
Felixson  sing,  and  you  were  that  canny  lass  Leezie  Lind- 
say, I  should  know  jolly  well  that  after  I  'd  carried  you 
off  to  the  Hielands  my  bride  and  my  darling  to  be,  it 
would  be  a  very  short  time  before  Lady  Ronald  Macdonald 
had  all  the  airs  and  tricks  of  speech  of  my  sisters  and 
cousins.  That,  however,  is  neither  here  nor  there.  Who 
wants  you  to  be  different  ?  Aurora,  if  you  only  knew  your- 
self !     Ceres,  or  Summer,  or  Peace  sitting  among  the  wheat- 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  395 

sheaves,  what  would  it  matter  that  she  had  not  been  edu- 
cated at  a  fashionable  boarding-school?  Let  her  just 
breathe  and  be, — beautiful,  benign,  and  any  man  not  utterly 
a  fool  will  prefer  to  lie  at  her  knees,  keeping  still  while 
her  silence  appeases  and  reconciles  him,  to  hearing  the  most 
brilliant  conversation  of  a  lady  novelist." 

"You  can  talk  beautifully,  Gerald,  that  's  one  sure  thing; 
but  talk  me  over  you  can't.  Seems  to  me  I  should  have 
to  be  crazy  to  forget  all  in  a  moment  what  I  Ve  said  over 
and  over  to  myself,  and  drilled  myself  not  to  lose  sight  of. 
After  you  asked  me  the  other  day,  though  I  knew  it  was 
just  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  I  thought  it  all  out  in  the 
night  as  much  as  if  it  had  been  serious,  and  I  saw  what 
would  be  the  one  safe  course  for  little  me.  I  mustn't; 
that  's  all  there  is  to  it.  Everything  is  wrong  for  it  to 
turn  out  happy  in  the  end.  I  'm  terribly  fond  of  you,  but 
I  should  be  scared  to  death  of  you,  simply  scared  to  death, 
as  a  husband.  We  're  not  the  same  kind.  If  I  could  for- 
get it  on  my  own  account,  I  have  only  to  remember  how  it 
would  strike  Estelle.  And  Estelle  's  got  no  end  of  horse 
sense.  It  's  according  to  horse  sense  we  must  act  when  it 
comes  to  settling  the  real  things  of  life.  I  expect" — she 
had  the  effect  of  turning  a  page  or  a  corner;  she  dropped 
from  heights  of  argument  to  low  plains — ''I  expect  I  shall 
be  big  as  a  mountain  by  and  by.  I  don't  see  any  help  for 
it.  I  starve  myself,  I  drink  hot  water,  I  take  exercise, — 
nearly  walk  my  legs  off, — and  the  next  time  I  get  weighed 
I  've  gained  three  pounds !  What  's  the  use  ?  Then,  I  'm 
older  than  you." 

''Not  at  all.  I  'm  older  than  the  everlasting  hills;  you 
are  the  youngest  thing  that  lives." 

"That  's  all  right,  but  you  were  twenty-eight  your  last 


396  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

birthday,  and  I  'm  thirty.  I  'm  afraid  my  character  's 
already  pretty  well  fixed  in  its  present  form.  When  it 
comes  over  me,  for  instance,  to  play  the  clown,  I  Ve  got 
to  do  it  or  burst.  And  you  're  naturally  a  tyrant,  you 
know." 

*'I  am.  I  am  critical,  carping,  conventional,  and  a 
tyrant,  everything  you  say,  but  just  because  I  am  those 
things,  you  ought  to  be  able  to  see,  dear  Aurora — because 
I  am  those  things  and  know  it,  they  are  the  things  least 
to  be  feared  in  me.  Do  you  suppose  Marcus  Aurelius  was 
really  calm  and  philosophical?  Because  he,  on  the  con- 
trary, was  anxious  and  passionate,  he  wrote  those  maxims 
to  try  to  live  by.  When  you  would  go  and  be  a  negress, 
did  I  make  a  scene?  I  gnashed  my  teeth  and  gnawed  my 
knuckles,  but  when  I  saw  you  afterward,  wasn't  I  de- 
cently decent?" 

**Yes,  but  you  took  to  your  bed.  If  I  were  Mrs.  Gerald, 
and  the  Pope  of  Rome  sent  for  me  to  do  Lew  Dockstader 
for  him  and  his  cardinals,  you  know  you  would  n  't  let  me 

go." 

**  You  are  wrong.  I  should  make  a  point  of  it.  I  should 
only  ask  to  be  permitted  to  retire  into  solitude  until  all 
the  vulgar  people  had  stopped  talking  about  it." 

*'Ah,  you  're  a  dear,  funny  boy;  but  put  it  out  of  your 
mind,  Geraldino,  do,  dear,  when  we  're  so  happy  as  it  is. 
Let  's  go  on  just  as  we  've  been  going ;  you  know  yourself 
that  it  's  the  wisest,  and  what  really  you  would  prefer.  If 
you  've  asked  me  to-day — mind,  I  don't  say  you  have;  but 
if  you  have — to  save  my  vanity  and  back  up  the  proposal 
you  did  n  't  really  mean  the  other  day, — ^because  you  're 
always  such  a  gentleman  j  you  'd  rather  die  than  not  behave 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  397 

like  a  gentleman, — let  it  go  at  that.  But  if  you  should 
feel  now  that  you  Ve  got  to  back  up  your  declaration  that 
you  Ve  going  to  persist  and  follow  this  up,  just  ask  me  over 
again  every  few  days  to  show  there  's  no  unkind  feeling, 
and  I  promise  it  will  be  safe;  I  '11  refuse  you  every  time. 
It  11  be  our  little  standing  joke.  For  don't  you  go  dream- 
ing that  I  'm  going  to  let  go  of  you!  You  can  call  me 
pudgy  if  I  let  you  get  away.  I  love  you  too  dearly. 
Was  n  't  everything  all  right  and  lovely  until  the  other  day 
when  you  came  out  with  that  stilted  speech,  'doing  you  the 
honor'?  We  '11  take  up  again  just  where  we  left  off,  and 
bimeby  make  fun  of  all  this.  You  who  've  read  all  the 
books  ever  written,  don't  you  know  of  cases  where  two 
like  us  went  on  being  just  friends,  and  taking  comfort  in 
each  other  on  and  on  to  the  end  of  the  tale?" 

**  There  have  been  examples,  yes,  a  very  few,  and  not  on 
the  whole  encouraging." 

**You  know  we  never  thought  of  anything  else  until 
three  days  ago,  and  were  perfectly  contented.  Let  's  call 
all  this  in  between  a  mistake,  like  taking  the  wrong  road 
and  having  to  turn  back  to  be  where  we  were  before.  Let  's 
go  back." 

''Yes,  let  's  go  back.    I  won't  bore  you  any  more.'' 

He  had  all  in  an  instant  changed  to  cool  dryness.  They 
would  get  no  further  along  with  talk  on  this  occasion,  that 
was  clear.  And  to  clasp  her  knees,  laying  his  head  on  her 
lap,  and  penetrate  her  in  silence  with  the  conviction  that 
they  belonged  together  in  a  manner  that  turned  all  the 
sensible  things  she  said  into  folly,  could  not  be  done  out- 
side the  world  of  dreams  and  fancies.  He  jumped  to  his 
feet. 


398  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  : 

''I  meant,  you  know,  let  's  go  back  to  Florence.     I  'm  , 

afraid  it  's  high  time.     We  ought  to  have  daylight  at  least  ] 

until  we  get  to  the  foot  of  the  mountain."  j 

*' Cross,  Geraldino?"  ' 

*'Notatall." 

*'Good  friends  as  ever?"  ' 

**  Assuredly."  . 

''Oh,  I  've  had  such  a  beautiful  day!"  she  sighed,  get-  i 

ting  up  by  the  help  of  his  two  hands,  and  brushing  down  ! 
her  dress.     "I  certainly  do  love  to  be  with  you!" 

With  the  inconsequence  of  a  woman  she  wanted,  in  order  ; 

to  console  him  for  rejecting  him,  to  make  him  sure  she  j 

loved  him  deeply  nevertheless;  and  so  she  said,  turning  \ 
upon  him  eyes  of  sweetest,  sincerest  affection,  "I  certainly 

do  love  to  be  with  you ! ' '  i 

In  the  carriage  they  were  silent,  like  people  tired  out 
by  the  long  day,  talked  out,  and  certain  of  each  other's  con- 
sent to  be  still.  ' 

The  two  young  fellows  on  the  box  were  quiet,  too.     The  ' 

horses  now  needed  no  encouragement  to  go ;  the  scraping  of  : 

the  brake  gave  evidence  rather  of  the  need  to  hold  them  .; 

back.     The  driver's  friend,  named  appropriately  Pilade,  i 

sat  hunched  with  chilly  sleepiness ;  but  Angelo,  the  driver,  I 

was  kept  visibly  alert  by  the  responsibility  of  making  a  i 

safe  descent  in  the  fast-failing  light.     Owing  to  the  dila-  j 

toriness  of  the  signori  they  had  been  later  in  starting  than  j 
was  prudent. 

When  they  emerged  at  last  from  the  shadow  of  the  chest-  , 

nut-trees  and  the  brake  blessedly  was  released,  it  was  ac-  ^ 

complished  evening.     The  dome  of  the  firmament  spread  j 

above  them  so  wonderful  for  darkly  luminous  serenity  that  | 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  399 

the  signori  behind  in  the  carriage  arranged  themselves  to 
contemplate  it  comfortably,  with  their  feet  on  the  forward 
bench,  their  heads  propped  on  the  back  of  the  seat. 

Thus  they  passed  through  glimmering  hamlets,  between 
high  walls  of  orchards,  past  iron  gates  opening  into  cypress 
avenues  with  dim  villas  at  the  other  end,  terraces  of  vine- 
garlanded  olive-trees,  all  of  a  dark  silvery  blue,  and  did 
not  vouchsafe  a  look  at  anything  but  the  inverted  cup 
of  the  nocturnal  sky. 

Even  this  they  did  not  see  more  than  in  a  secondary  way, 
for  the  interposing  thoughts  and  images. 

The  eyes  of  both  were  wide,  and  in  their  fixity  the  lights 
of  heaven  were  glassed.  The  face  of  the  one  burned  with 
a  red  spot  on  the  visibly-defined  cheek-bone;  the  cheeks  of 
the  other  were,  for  a  marvel,  pale. 

Aurora,  uplifted  on  a  great  wonder  and  pride  and  illog- 
ical happiness,  was  thinking  of  the  days  to  come,  the  imme- 
diate to-morrows,  rich  in  a  tenderness  profounder  still  than 
that  which  had  linked  her  before  to  the  companion  staring 
at  the  stars  beside  her;  she  thought  of  how  she  should 
through  a  wise  firmness  and  God's  help  steer  their  course 
into  ways  of  a  safer  and  longer  happiness  than  that  which 
he  had  tendered. 

**It  would  seem  rather  unnecessary — "  came  from  him 
through  the  transparent  darkness  in  what  was  to  the  young 
driver's  ears  a  monotonous  bar  of  insignificant  sound,  *'it 
would  seem  to  me  almost  imbecile,  to  say  to  you  that  I  love 
you,  when  for  months  I  have  been  hovering  around  you,  as 
must  have  been  evident  to  the  dullest,  like  the  care-burth- 
ened  honey-fly,  possessed  with  the  fixed  desire  to  hide  his 
murmurs  in  the  rose.  When  for  months  I  have  been,  in 
fact,  like  a  dog  with  his  nose  on  your  footprints,  asking 


400  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

nothing  but  to  lie  down  at  your  feet  with  his  muzzle  on 
your  shoe." 

She  impulsively  felt  for  his  hand,  and  pushed  her  own 
into  it.  *' Don't  say  another  word,  Gerald.  I  daresn't 
do  what  you  wish,  I  just  daresn  't.  I  'm  plain  scared  to ! 
And  I  'm  such  a  fool  that  I  'm  nearer  to  it  this  minute 
than  I  like  to  be  by  a  long  sight.  I  'm  fond  enough  of 
you  for  almost  anything,  and  you  know  it,  but  I  must  keep 
my  level  head.  It  can't  be  done — a  greyhound  tied  down 
to  a  mudturtle.  I  know  what  I  'm  like, — no  disparage- 
ment meant,  Mrs.  Hawthorne, — and  what  you  're  like,  and 
I  won't  let  myself  forget.  I  'm  looking  out  first  of  all  for 
myself,  but  I  'm  looking  out  for  you,  too,  dear  boy.  Don't 
say  any  more  about  it  to-night,  Gerald,  please,  with  the 
stars  shining  like  that,  and  the  air  so  sweet  that  all  the 
fairy-tales  you  ever  h^ard  seem  possible.  I  want  to  keep 
solid  earth  under  my  feet." 

Gerald  was  not  so  devoid  of  the  right  masculine  spark 
as  not  to  recognize  the  moment  for  one  of  which  advantage 
should  be  taken  by  any  creature  capable  of  growing  a 
mustache.  The  thing  to  be  done  was  to  put  his  arms 
around  her  like  a  man,  and  lay  his  head  on  her  shoulder 
like  a  child,  and  treat  as  not  existing  the  barriers  which 
she  described  as  dividing  them. 

Often  enough  in  his  life  Gerald  had  wished  he  might 
have  been  a  masterful  man,  capable  of  the  like  things.  But 
already  a  vague  sickness  of  soul  had  succeeded  his  mo- 
mentarily dominant  mood.  Distrust  filled  him — of  his  own 
character,  his  aims,  his  talent,  his  health,  and  his  destiny. 
His  dreams  had  but  recently  taken  the  form  in  which  he 
had  that  day  expressed  them ;  he  had  not  grown  into  them. 
Under  the  depressing  effect  of  failure  he  was  no  more  sure 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  401 

than  she  had  professed  to  be  that  the  proposed  union  would 
not  be  a  rash  mistake.  He  saw  the  wisdom  of  a  return  to 
his  gray  policy  of  wanting  nothing,  asking  nothing.  Heavi- 
ness possessed  him;  he  made  no  motion. 

Signs  of  the  nearing  city  came  thicker  and  thicker;  the 
street  lamps  became  frequent  and  consecutive.  Aurora  sat 
up  and  composed  her  appearance.  The  lighted  house- 
fronts  threw  back  the  skies  to  inexpressible  altitudes. 

She  continued  aloud  for  Gerald  to  hear  a  conversation 
she  had  been  holding  mentally: 

"Estelle  says  we  must  go  away  somewhere  for  the  sum- 
mer, because  it  's  awfully  hot  down  here  in  Florence,  we  're 
told.  "We  're  thinking  of  taking  some  sort  of  place  at  the 
seashore  for  the  bathing  season.  You  '11  be  coming  down 
to  visit  us,  won't  you?  Then  by  and  by,  when  I  've  had 
pretty  near  enough  of  the  kind  of  life  I  'm  leading,  tell 
you  what  I  'm  thinking  I  '11  do.  Give  up  the  house  I  've 
got  and  take  another,  different,  and  fit  it  up  for  a  chil- 
dren's hospital,  a  small  one,  of  course,  to  be  within  my 
means,  and  run  it  myself,  and  do  what  I  can  of  the  nursing. 
I  've  been  thinking  of  it  for  some  time  as  a  good  thing  to 
do  instead  of  spending  my  money  and  nothing  to  show  for 
it.  It  would  be  something  to  do  for  the  sake  of  little  Dan, 
to  make  it  so  it  Avould  n  't  be  the  same  as  if  he  never  had 
passed  through  the  world.  Then  I  shall  have  my  work 
just  as  you  have  yours,  Gerald.  And  so  we  '11  live  on,  each 
so  interested  in  all  the  other  does.  And  you  '11  come  to 
see  me,  and  I  '11  go  to  see  you — chaperoned,  if  you  insist, 
though  I  understand  a  studio  can  be  visited  without  im- 
propriety, and — '' 

"You  can  leave  me  out  of  your  plans  for  the  future.  I 
am  going  away  to  forget  you." 


402  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

''Oh,  no,  you  're  not.  You  're  coming  to  see  me  to- 
morrow.    Five  o  'clock  at  the  very  latest,  hear  ? ' ' 

' '  I  'm  afraid  you  will  have  to  excuse  me. ' ' 

* '  You  would  n  't  break  my  heart  like  that  for  anything, 
Gerald  Fane!  You  wouldn't  let  the  foolish  doings  of 
this  day  destroy  all  the  months  have  built  up !  You  're  not 
so  mean.  When  I  tell  you  it  '11  be  all  right  and  just  as  it 
was  before — " 

But  he  stubbornly  would  not  agree,  and  they  quarreled, 
as  so  often,  half  in  play,  half  in  real  exasperation,  each 
calling  the  other  selfish. 

But  at  her  door,  when  he  took  her  hands  to  thank  her 
for  the  day  she  had  given  him,  he  dropped  quite  naturally, 
"Until  to-morrow,  then,"  and  she  entered  her  great  white 
hall  with  a  happy,  shining  face. 

In  the  half-light  of  the  solitary  hall-lamp  the  white-and- 
gold  door  between  the  curving  halves  of  the  stairway  stood 
open  on  to  the  blackness  of  the  uulighted  ball-room.  At 
the  threshold  appeared  Estelle,  and  stood  with  folded  arms 
until  the  servant  who  answered  the  bell  had  been  heard 
retreating  down  the  back  stairs.  She  came  forward  with 
a  tired  ,troubled,  pallid,  and  severe  face. 

''Well,  I  'm  glad  you  've  got  back!"  she  said,  as  much 
as  to  say  that  she  had  given  up  looking  for  her.  And  as 
Aurora  unexpectedly  cast  mischievous,  muscular  arms 
around  her  and  tried  to  squeeze  the  breath  out  of  her,  she 
gasped  amid  spasms  of  resistance:  "Stop!  Don't  try  to 
pacify  me !  I  'm  in  no  mood  for  fooling !  I  'm  as  cross 
with  you  as  I  can  be!" 

"You  little  slate-pencil!  You  little  lemon-drop,  you!" 
said  Aurora,  squeezing  harder,  then  suddenly  letting  go. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  403 

**I  'm  in  no  mood  to  be  funny,  you — you  county-fair 
prize  punkin !  I  've  been  worried  half  to  death.  Where  've 
you  been  so  long,  'way  into  the  night,  long  past  eleven 
o'clock?" 

*' Did  n't  you  find  my  note  on  the  pin-cushion?  That 
informed  you  where  I  've  been." 

*'I  thought  you  must  have  met  with  an  accident,  to  make 
you  so  terribly  late,  or  else  made  up  your  mind  to  go  off 
with  that  young  man  for  good  and  all.  Tell  you  the  truth, 
I  didn't  quite  know  which  I  should  prefer,  which  would 
be  better  for  you  in  the  end." 

*'Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  've  been  sitting  here  all 
day  stewing  and  fretting  about  that  ?  Did  n  't  you  ever 
in  your  life  go  buggy-riding  with  a  feller,  and  did  it  al- 
ways ends  with  the  grand  plunge?  You  know  it  didn't. 
You  know  you  could  ride  from  Provincetown  to  Boston, 
with  the  moon  shining,  too,  and  not  even  exchange  a  chaste 
salute." 

"Nell,  there  's  one  thing  I  know,  and  it  's  that  my  scold- 
ing and  warning  and  beseeching  will  do  exactly  as  much 
good  as  an  old  cow  mooing  with  her  neck  stretched  over 
a  stone  wall.  You  know  what  I  think.  I  've  had  plenty 
of  time  for  reflection,  walking  up  and  down  the  floor  in 
there  in  the  dark;  and  long  before  you  finally  got  home 
I  'd  made  up  my  mind  not  to  be  an  idiot  and  make  myself 
a  nuisance  trying  to  influence  you.  It  's  your  funeral. 
What  you  choose  to  do  is  none  of  my  business.  What  I 
said  when  you  came  in  just  escaped  me. —  Stand  off  and 
let  me  look  at  you." 

While  making  the  request,  she  herself  drew  off  to  get 
a  more  comprehensive  view  of  her  friend. 

Something  of  the  sunshine,  the  mountain  sweetness,  the 


404  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

unpolluted  breezes  and  wide  perspectives  of  the  heights, 
the  dreams  of  the  starlit  homeward  ride,  the  triumph  in 
man's  love,  was  shining  forth  from  Aurora,  with  her  fresh 
sunburn,  her  untidied  hair,  and  softly  luminous  eyes.  Es- 
telle  felt  herself  suddenly  on  the  point  of  tears.  But  she 
stiffened. 

*'Well,  you  do  look  as  if  you  'd  had  a  good  time,  you 
crazy  thing ! ' '  she  said  dryly.  ' '  What  made  you  put  your 
best  dress  on  if  you  were  going  to  sit  round  on  the  ground  ? 
You  've  got  it  all  grass  stains.  Oh,  Nell,"  she  melted, 
*' while  you  Ve  been  off  gallivanting,  I  Ve  just  about  wor- 
ried myself  sick  over  a  paper  Leslie  left.  I  Ve  been  long- 
ing for  you  to  get  back  to  see  what  you  make  of  it. ' ' 

*'A  paper?     What  do  you  mean?" 

*'A  newspaper.  Come  on  up-stairs.  I  left  it  on  the 
desk.  Leslie  called  in  the  forenoon,  but  I  had  gone  out. 
Then  she  came  again  in  the  afternoon,  so  I  knew  it  must 
be  something  special.  But  I  simply  could  n  't  bring  myself 
to  see  her  and  let  her  know  you  'd  gone  off  for  the  whole 
day  with  Gerald  Fane.  So  I  got  the  maid  to  tell  her  we 
were  both  out.  Everybody  does  that  over  here.  Anyhow, 
I  went  and  stood  on  the  terrace  while  the  maid  was  deliv- 
ering my  message.  So  Leslie  went  off,  but  she  left  this 
Italian  paper  for  the  maid  to  give  us.  And,  my  dear, — 
now  don't  faint, — there  's  a  long  piece  in  it  about  you." 

*'For  goodness'  sakes!     About  me?    Why?    Where?" 

*' There.  It  isn't  marked,  and  I  was  the  longest  time 
trying  to  discover  why  Leslie  had  left  the  paper.  After 
I  'd  gone  all  over  it  hunting  for  a  marked  passage,  I 
thought  it  must  be  a  mistake  and  that  she  'd  simply  left 
it  because  she  was  tired  of  carrying  it  round,  and  the  maid 
had  n  't  understood.    But  going  over  it  column  by  column, 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  405 

I  at  last  saw  the  word  Hawthorne  and  those  other  names. 
*Vna  Americana' — 'An  American' — the  article  is  entitled. 
It  looks  to  me,  Nell,  as  if  your  whole  life's  history  might 
be  printed  there." 

''For  the  land's  sake!  Now,  who  do  you  suppose  can 
have  done  that  ?     What  on  earth  would  anybody  want  to — " 

"I  've  been  puzzling  over  it  and  puzzling  over  it  till 
I  'm  about  played  out  trying  to  make  sense  of  it,  and  my 
head  aches  like  fury.  Oh,  never  mind  my  head!  Now 
you  've  got  back  I  don 't  care. ' ' 

' '  And  your  French  does  n  't  help  you  to  translate  it  ? " 

"Yes,  it  does  help — some.  I  can  pick  out  lots  of  words, 
and  here  and  there  a  whole  sentence ;  but  what  I  can 't  get 
at  is  the  spirit  of  the  whole,  whether  it  's  meant  to  be 
friendly  or  not. ' ' 

"Have  you  tried  with  a  dictionary?  Where  's  the  dic- 
tionary ?     Get  it,  and  we  '11  pick  it  out  if  it  takes  all  night. ' ' 

"Indeed,  I  wish  I  had  a  dictionary.  Mine  's  French- 
English.  I  asked  Clotilde  if  she  had  an  Italian-English  or 
an  Italian-French,  and  she  said  yes,  but  at  home.  Isn't 
it  provoking?  I  certainly  wasn't  going  to  show  this  to 
her,  and  get  her  to  translate  it  for  me  before  I  'd  consulted 
with  you." 

"Bother!"  said  Aurora,  thoughtfully,  with  her  eyes  on 
the  cryptic  print.  Estelle  sat  close,  examining  the  sheet 
over  her  shoulder.  *' Elena  means  Helen,  doesn't  it?  I 
guess  it  must,  as  it  comes  here  before  Barton.  They  've 
got  my  old  name.  And  there  's  Bewick — Bewick,  and 
here  's  Colorado.  They  've  got  the  whole  thing,  fast 
enough.  It  's  the  doing  of  an  enemy;  there  can  be  no 
doubt  of  that." 

' '  I  know  who  you  're  thinking  about. ' ' 


406  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

*' Charlie  Hunt,  of  course.  Scamp!  "Worm!  Cock- 
roach! Low  down,  ungrateful,  pop-eyed  pig!"  Nor  did 
the  reviling  stop  there.  For  the  space  of  about  forty  sec- 
onds Aurora  was  unpublishable. 

*'But  how  on  earth  did  he  get  at  it?"  wondered  Estelle. 

**  After  he  'd  opened  that  letter  of  mine,  he  wrote  to  the 
amiable  writer  thereof  and  asked  for  information." 

''Honestly,  Nell,  I  don't  think  he  's  had  time." 

"I  guess  he  has — just  time.  The  languishing  lona  hur- 
ried for  once.  Well,  I  don't  care!"  Aurora  folded  the 
paper  tight  and  flung  it  from  her.  ' '  Enemies  may  do  what 
they  please ;  I  've  got  friends.  If  everything  comes  out  as 
it  really  happened,  I  haven't  anything  to  fear,  except  that 
it  's  mighty  unpleasant.  It  's  only  lies,  and  people  believ- 
ing them,  that  could  do  me  harm.  I  've  got  friends  in 
Florence.  Oh,  not  many  true  ones,  I  don't  suppose.  It  's 
paying  my  way  that  has  made  me  popular,  I  'm  not  such 
a  gump  as  not  to  know  that.  But  some  true  friends  I  've 
got,  and  their  backing  will  be  my  stay.  One  friend  I  've 
got — "  Pride  and  a  sudden  battle-light  flashed  in  Au- 
rora's eye.  "One  friend  I  've  got,  who  if  I  gave  the  word 
would  kill  Charlie  Hunt  for  this,  or  put  Hm  in  a  fair  way 
to  dying.  I  do  believe,  Hat,  that  Gerald  Fane  would  call 
Charlie  Hunt  out  to  fight  a  duel  to  punish  him  for  a  slur 
on  me.  Oh,  he  can  fence  just  as  well  as  the  Italians  he  was 
brought  up  with.  I  've  seen  the  fencing-swords  in  his 
studio.  But ' ' — she  calmed  down — ' '  I  would  n  't  permit  that 
sort  of  thing.     It  's  ridiculous.     I  don't  believe  in  it." 

Cooling  to  normal,  she  laughed,  with  a  return  to  the  light 
of  reality.  ' '  He  does  n  't  believe  in  it,  either,  I  should  n  't 
suppose." 


L 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ESLIE,  arriving  early  next  day,  read  off  the  news- 
paper article,  making  a  free  translation  of  it,  as 
follows : 


When  a  thing  is  too  successful,  it  is  seldom  natural; 
and  so  when  there  appeared  in  our  city  a  signora,  blond  of 
hair,  azure  of  eye,  wdth  the  complexion  of  delicate,  lumi- 
nous roses,  red  and  white,  whose  name  was  at  once  Aurora 
and  Alhaspina, — Hawthorne, — floral  counterpart  of  dawn, 
we  should  have  had  suspicions.  That  we  had  none  does 
not  prevent  our  feeling  no  very  great  surprise  when  we 
learn  that  the  bearer  of  the  poetic  and  more  than  appropri- 
ate name  is  called  in  sober  truth  Elena  Barton.  The  more 
beautiful  name  was  adopted  by  a  child  acting  out  its  fairy- 
stories;  it  was  remembered  and  re-adopted  by  a  woman 
when  she  wished  to  detach  her  life  from  a  past  which 
neither  charity,  fidelity,  nor  devotion  to  a  sacred  duty  had 
succeeded  in  keeping  from  sorrow  and  the  deadly  asper- 
sions of  malignity. 

The  gentilissima  person  of  the  irradiating  smile,  which, 
however  briefly  seen,  must  be  long  remembered,  whom  we 
have  grown  accustomed  this  winter  to  meeting  in  the  salons 
where  assembles  all  that  is  most  distinguished  among  for- 
eigners, whose  name  we  have  grown  accustomed  to  finding 
foremost  in  every  work  of  charity,  has  a  title  to  our  esteem 
far  beyond  the  ordinary  member  of  an  indolent  and  fa- 

407 


408  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

vored  class.  To  alleviate  suffering  has  been  the  chosen 
work  of  those  hands  that  Florence  also  has  found  ever  open 
and  ready  with  their  help.  It  was  in  effect  the  extent  of 
their  beneficence  which  brought  about  the  black  imbroglio 
from  which  Elena  Barton  chose  to  flee  and  take  refuge  in 
the  City  of  Flowers  under  the  soave  and  harmonious  name 
by  which  we  know  her. 

Her  life  had  been  for  several  years  devoted  to  the  care 
of  an  old  man  afflicted  with  a  most  malignant  and  terrible 
cancer  in  the  face.  She  had  filled  toward  him  so  perfectly 
the  part  of  a  daughter  that  his  gratitude  made  her  upon 
his  death  an  equal  sharer  in  his  fortune  with  the  children 
of  his  blood.  Thence  the  law-case  Bewick  versus  Barton, 
which  for  a  period  filled  the  city  of  Denver  in  Colorado 
of  the  United  States  as  if  with  poisonous  fumes.  The  lit- 
eral daughters,  two  in  number,  who  had  shown  no  filial 
love  for  the  unfortunate  old  man,  in  trying  to  annul  their 
father's  will,  left  nothing  undone  or  unspoken  that  could 
help  their  tiirpe,  or  evil,  purpose,  even  attempting  to  prove 
that  not  only  had  the  devoted  nurse  been  their  father's 
amante —  [You  can  guess  what  that  is,  Aurora.  They 
are  much  simpler  here  than  we  at  home  about  calling  things 
by  their  names,  and  much  more  outspoken  on  all  subjects], 
but  had  likewise  been  the  amante  of  the  son,  sole  member 
of  the  family  who  supported  her  claim  to  the  share  of  the 
fortune  appointed  by  the  father.  Justice  in  the  event  pre- 
vailed, but  a  tired  and  broken  woman  emerged  from  the 
conflict.  What  to  do  to  regain  a  little  of  that  pleasure  in 
living  which  blackening  calumnies  and  rodent  ill-will,  even 
when  not  victorious,  can  destroy  in  the  upright  and  feel- 
ing nature?  The  imagination  which  had  prompted  in 
childhood  the  acting  out  of  fairy-stories  here  came  into 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  409 

play :  Leave  behind  the  scene  of  sorrows,  take  ship,  and 
point  the  prow  toward  the  land  of  orange  and  myrtle,  of 
golden  marbles  and  wine-colored  sunsets;  change  name, 
begin  again,  do  good  under  a  beautiful  appellation  which 
the  poor  should  learn  to  love  and  speak  in  their  prayers  to 
the  last  of  their  days.  .  .  . 

**The  rest,  Aurora  dear,  is  pure  flattery,  which  it  be- 
comes me  not  to  speak  nor  you  to  hear.  I  won't  read 
it." 

' '  Well,  I  never ! ' '  breathed  Aurora.     ' '  Who  did  it  ? " 

' '  We  did  it !  My  father  and  your  Doctor  Bewick  and 
Carlo  Guerra  and  I.  We  did  it  to  be  before  anybody  else, 
set  the  worst  that  could  be  brought  up  against  you  in  a 
light  that  explains  and  justifies.  We  did  our  best  to  fix 
the  public  mind  and  show  it  what  it  should  think.  You 
know  what  the  mind  of  the  public  is.  We  Ve  hypnotized 
the  beast,  I  hope;  it  has  taken  its  bent  from  us." 

'^But—" 

' '  This  was  the  way  of  it,  my  dear.  The  day  after  Bren- 
da's  wedding  I  was  at  the  Fontanas, — she  was  a  Miss 
Andrews,  you  know,  of  Indianapolis, — and  there  was 
Charlie,  too,  and  there  was  likewise  Madame  Sartorio,  who 
is  Colonel  Fontana's  niece  by  his  first  marriage.  We  were 
talking  in  a  little  group  when  something,  I  forget  what,  was 
said  about  you,  Aurora.  Charlie — for  what  reason  would 
be  hard  to  think,  unless  one  had  a  sharp  scent  for  what 
goes  on  under  one's  nose — Charlie  interrupted,  to  intro- 
duce as  a  sort  of  parenthesis,  'Mrs.  Hawthorne,  whose  real 
name,  by  the  way,  is  Helen  Barton.'  The  others  were 
naturally  taken  aback,  except  Madame  Sartorio,  who  could 
jiot  quite  disguise  a  cat-smile.    For  a  moment  none  of  us 


410  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

knew  what  to  say,  and  Charlie  went  on,  with  his  air  of 
knowing  such  a  lot  more  than  anybody  else — 

**  'Yes.  It  seems  that  all  winter  we  have  been  warming 
in  our  bosom,  so  to  speak,  the  heroine  of  a  cause  celehre 
at  a  place  called  Colorado  in  America.'  " 

''That  was  enough  for  me.     I  stopped  him. 

"  'Don't  say  any  more,  Charlie.  All  I  wish  to  know 
about  Mrs.  Hawthorne  is  what  she  cares  to  tell  me  her- 
self,' and  I  insisted  that  the  conversation  should  return  to 
other  things. 

"When  I  got  home  I  told  mother,  and  she  repeated  to 
me  what  you,  Aurora,  confided  to  her  when  we  first  knew 
you.  We  told  father,  and  when  Doctor  Bewick  came  that 
evening  to  say  good-by  we  consulted,  and  here  in  this  news- 
paper you  have  the  result,  put  into  Italian  journalese  by 
Carlo  Guerra,  whom  we  called  in  to  aid  us.  He  likes  you 
so  much,  Aurora;  did  you  know  it?  He  met  you  at  An- 
tonia's.  So  there  you  have  the  whole  story.  I  'm  bit- 
terly ashamed  of  Charlie,  my  dear,  and  I  'm  sorry  about 
him,  too.  One  never  looked  upon  him  as  a  particularly 
fine  fellow,  still,  one  liked  him.  He  had  never  done  any- 
thing that  disqualified  him  for  a  sort  of  liking,  and  we  've 
all  grown  up  together."  Leslie  wrinkled  her  forehead  in 
puzzlement.  "It  's  curious,  somehow,  to  think  of  him, 
who,  we  have  said  so  often,  has  no  real  inside,  as  being 
sufficiently  under  the  dominion  of  a  passion  to  care  to 
please  his  lady  by  offering  up  you,  who  have,  after  all, 
been  to  him  a  source  of  a  good  many  pleasures,  with  your 
open  house,  invitations  to  dinner,  and  so  on.  I  don't  quite 
understand  it." 

"Never  mind  about  him!"  Aurora  flicked  him  aside. 
"I  don't  care.     And  you  say  Tom  helped.     And  he  never 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  411 

told  me,  or  wrote  me  a  word  about  it.  I  had  a  letter  from 
him  this  morning.  Well,  well.  You  certainly  did  make 
a  good-sounding  story  of  it,  among  you.  And  the  main 
facts  are  true,  far  as  they  go;  I  can't  say  they  aren't. 
But,  oh,  my  dear  Leslie,  there  was  a  lot  more  to  it  than 
that.  I  've  got  to  tell  you,  so  's  not  to  feel  like  a  fraud. 
You  're  so  sharp;  you  know  me  pretty  well  by  this  time, 
and  I  guess  you  don't  suppose  in  me  any  of  those  awfully 
'fine  feelin's'  that  could  make  a  blighted  flower  of  me  be- 
cause, while  innocent  as  a  babe  unborn,  I  'd  been  dragged 
through  the  courts  by  wicked  enemies.  My  enemies  were 
pretty  wicked;  I  stick  to  that.  Cora  Bewick,  off  living 
abroad  studying  some  strange  religion,  while  her  kind  old 
pa  was  dying  at  home,  and  she  never  once  coming  near 
him  till  he  was  under  ground ;  Idell  Friebus,  never  coming 
into  his  room  except  with  her  nose  wrinkled  up  with  dis- 
gust at  the  smell  of  disinfectants — or  disgust  at  him,  it  was 
none  too  plain  which.  They  made  a  fine  pair  of  daughters. 
But  when  it  came  to  fighting  over  the  will,  the  lawyers 
on  the  Bewick  side  gave  out  just  what  it  w^as  that  a  per- 
fectly noble  woman  would  have  done  in  my  place  of  the  old 
man's  nurse.  And  my  lawyers  would  have  it  that  every- 
thing that  didn't  accord  with  that  ideal  simply  must  be 
kept  dark,  or  public  feeling  would  go  against  us.  It  's 
that  that  made  it  so  nasty — pretending,  and  avoiding  this, 
and  keeping  off  the  other.  It  amounted  to  lying,  no  mat- 
ter what  they  said.  But  they  told  me  if  I  did  n  't  do  as 
my  counsel  instructed  me,  the  result  would  be  the  worst 
lie  of  all.  I  should  be  believed  guilty  of  just  that  undue 
influence  I  was  accused  of,  and  lose  the  money  into  the 
bargain.  So  I  had  to  hedge  and  shuffle  and  mislead.  .  .  . 
And  me  under  oath  to  tell  the  truth !     You  need  n  't  won- 


412  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

der  if  I  'm  sick  still  at  the  thought  of  it,  or  wonder  that  I  'd 
like  to  forget  it.  The  truth  was  I  did  know  beforehand 
the  Judge  meant  to  leave  me  one  fourth  of  his  money,  and 
I  was  tickled  to  death.  I  gloried  in  it.  I  loved  to  imagine 
the  rage  it  would  throw  his  wicked  daughters  in,  and  his 
mean  little  miserable  son-in-law.  I  was  glad,  besides,  out 
and  out,  to  think  I  should  have  the  money.  I  plain  wanted 
it,  I  did.  Maybe  a  real  noble  woman  wouldn't  have. 
Maybe  it  showed  a  degraded  nature.  Well,  that  's  the  way 
it  was.  Sometimes  I  feel  disposed  to  be  ashamed  of  it,  but 
mostly  I  don't.  For  one  thing,  I  felt  then  and  I  feel  now, 
I  deserved  that  money  by  a  long  sight  more  than  those  bad- 
hearted  girls  of  his.  I  was  a  comfort  to  Judge  Bewick. 
I  won't  say  I  earned  the  money,  it  was  too  much :  but  there 
were  some  hours  of  my  tending  him,  poor  soul,  when  it 
did  seem  to  me  a  nurse  came  pretty  near  earning  anything 
the  patient  could  afford  to  pay.  All  the  same,  I  would 
have  done  what  I  did  for  the  old  boy  if  he  hadn't  had  a 
cent,  I  had  so  much  respect  for  him,  as  much  as  for  my 
own  father,  and  I  felt  I  owed  so  much  to  his  son.  Then 
about  his  son,  the  doctor.  If  Cora's  old  nurse-girl,  who 
was  kept  on  in  the  house  as  a  servant,  though  she  was  past 
her  usefulness,  lied  in  court  when  she  said  she  saw  Tom 
and  me  kissing  at  such  an  hour,  in  such  a  place,  still,  the 
truth  was  that  I  had  at  different  times  kissed  Tom.  You 
can't  tell  why  it  seems  all  right  to  you  to  kiss  one  man 
when  it  would  seem  a  very  queer  thing  to  do  to  kiss  an- 
other. When  Tom  had  been  away  for  any  length  of  time, 
I  always  kissed  him  when  he  came  back;  it  seemed  natural 
to  both  of  us.  But  there  in  court  I  had  to  try  to  appear 
as  if  I  never  could  have  descended  to  committing  such  an 
immoral  act,  as  well  as  to  give  the  impression  that  if  I  'd 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  413 

known  the  old  man  had  any  notion  of  making  me  co-heir 
with  his  own  children  I  would  have  strained  every  nerve 
to  stop  it,  called  them  all  in  to  help  me  curb  him  if  neces- 
sary. Pshaw !  the  humbug  of  it  turns  my  stomach  now. 
Leslie,  my  verdict  is,  you  can't  come  through  a  law-suit 
clean.  1  'd  give  a  good  deal  to  cut  that  page  out  of  my 
life." 

Aurora's  eyes,  filled  with  the  shadows  of  the  past,  and 
her  face,  with  the  dimples  expunged,  were  to  Leslie  almost 
unfamiliar.  Aurora,  oppressed  in  her  moral  nature,  gave 
a  glimpse  of  herself  that  would  change  and  enlarge  the 
composite  of  her  aspects  carried  in  Leslie's  mind. 

''There,  stop  thinking  of  it!"  said  Estelle.  **You  al- 
ways work  yourself  up  so." 

''The  point  of  my  coming  bright  and  early  like  this," 
Leslie  nimbly  managed  a  diversion,  "was,  as  you  have 
guessed,  to  catch  you  before  you  could  possibly  go  out. 
My  mother  desires  you,  dear  ladies,  to  accompany  me  back 
to  lunch — a  triumphal  lunch,  Aurora,  to  grace  which  she 
has  collected  those  special  pillars  of  society  whose  counte- 
nance and  support  ought  to  make  you  scornful  of  any  little 
weed-like  growth  of  gossip  that  might  sprout  up  from  seed 
of  Charlie's  sowing.  You  know  them  all  more  or  less, 
having  been  associated  with  every  one  of  them  in  some  form 
of  beneficence.  I  might  more  accurately  describe  it: 
having  donated  largely  to  each  of  their  pet  charities.  It 
is  not  a  very  admirable  world — "  Leslie's  young  face  took 
that  little  air  of  knowing  the  world  which  sometimes 
amused  old  gentlemen  so  much,  "it  is  a  selfish  society,  not 
indisposed,  or,  I  am  afraid,  altogether  displeased,  to  believe 
evil  of  its  neighbor,  and  not  always  disinclined  to  turn  and 
rend  its  favorites.     But  it  would  be  a  pity,  really,  if  you 


414  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

should  have  poured  forth  upon  it  as  you  have  done,  Aurora, 
money  and  smiles,  bouquets  and  banquets  and  sunbeams, 
good-will  and  baby-socks  and  knitted  afghans,  and  it  did 
not  rise  up  when  you  are  attacked  and  say,  *No.  An  ex- 
ception has  to  be  made  in  this  case.  We  have  all  been 
bought!'" 

Aurora,  who  had  been  listening  with  expanded,  gather- 
ing-in  eyes,  cheeks  flushing  deeper  and  deeper,  turned  her 
head  sharply  away  to  try  to  keep  from  falling  or  being 
seen  two  unaccountable  tears  half  blinding  her. 

The  sight  of  her,  by  infection,  moistened  the  eyes  of  the 
other  women. 

Estelle  sought  a  quick  way  out  of  the  emotional  silence. 

*'Nell,"  she  said,  albeit  with  cracked  voice,  ''if  we  're 
going  out  to  lunch,  I  guess  we  ought  to  be  dressing.  Go 
along,  child,  put  on  your  best  bib  and  tucker." 

*  *  Oh,  my  best  bib  and  tucker ! ' '  wailed  Aurora.  * '  Sent 
to  the  cleaner's  this  morning,  all  green  stains  at  the  back!" 

If  Leslie  had  not  called  it  a  triumphal  lunch,  it  might 
not  have  appeared  so  very  different  from  any  other 
women's  lunch  at  the  season  of  roses.  Leslie  herself, 
though,  found  in  it  the  flavor  of  old-fashioned  romance, 
just  faintly  platitudinous,  in  which  poetic  justice  is  done. 
Mrs.  Foss,  the  more  simple-minded  organizer  of  it,  felt 
that  she  should  remember  it  as  an  occasion  when  she  had 
risen  to  the  level,  placed  the  right  cards  in  the  fist  of  des- 
tiny, and  created  an  event  worthy  to  take  rank  at  least  with 
those  little  triumphs  of  good  housewives  at  whose  home  the 
president  of  their  husband's  company  arrived  one  night 
unlocked  for  and  was  entertained  with  brilliant  credit. 

To  the  heroine  of  the  feast,  no  need  to  say  it  was  an  inex- 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  415 

pressibly  exciting,  grand,  and  memorable  occasion.  Aurora 
hardly  knew  herself,  so  much  the  object  of  attention  and 
graciousness.  She  was  in  the  mood  to  give  half  of  her 
goods  to  the  poor.  After  the  hostess  had  risen  and  made 
a  little  speech,  Aurora,  unexpectedlj^  to  herself,  and  as  if 
under  inspiration,  responded  by  a  little  speech  of  her  own, 
composed  on  the  spot.  It  was  drowned  at  the  end  by  hand- 
clapping  all  around  the  table.  Aurora  seemed  to  herself 
to  be  living  in  a  fairy-story. 

As  it  was  after  five  o'clock  when  she  reached  home,  she 
was  sure  she  would  find  Gerald  waiting  for  her.  She  had 
the  whole  day  long  been  looking  forward  with  a  sweet  agi- 
tation to  the  moment  of  being  with  him  and  telling  him  all 
about  it. 

She  was  more  disappointed  than  she  remembered  ever 
being,  even  as  a  child,  not  to  find  him  or  any  word  from 
him.  She  did  not  allow  it  to  become  later  by  more  than 
half  an  hour  before  she  scratched  a  line  and  sent  the  coach- 
man to  his  house  with  it. 

The  man  came  back  with  nothing  but  the  barren  infor- 
mation, received  from  Giovanna,  that  the  signorino  was 
absent,  having  gone  to  Leghorn. 

"Well,  here  's  a  pretty  howdydo!"  thought  Aurora,  sore 
with  surprise  and  the  smart  of  injury.  "If  every  time  I 
refuse  him  he  's  going  off  like  this  to  stay  away  for  days 
and  days,  what  am  I  going  to  do?" 


CHAPTER  XXII 

'  IT  F  this  is  the  way  it  was  going  to  be,  and  I  'd  known 
I     it  before,  I  'd  have  kept  better  watch  over  my  af- 
JL  fections,^'    said    Aurora    to    herself,    reflecting    upon 
Gerald  in  Leghorn,  where  he  was  bending  his  will  indus- 
triously, no  doubt,  to  the  work  of  forgetting  her. 

Beside  the  large  sharp  thorn  of  this  thought,  she  was 
troubled  by  what  was  a  small,  merely  uncomfortable  thorn : 
the  knowledge  of  Gerald  exposed  so  closely  to  the  influence 
of  Vincent,  that  persuasive  young  man  of  God,  who  bowed 
to  images  and  believed  in  the  Pope.  At  the  end  of  every 
weiarisome  day  she  gave  thanks  that  for  still  another 
twenty-four  hours  she  had  by  grace  of  strength  from  on 
high  been  able  to  fight  off  the  temptation  to  write  to  Gerald. 

This  for  nine  days — the  nine  days  it  takes  for  a  wonder 
to  become  a  commonplace  or  a  scandal  to  lose  its  prominent 
place  in  conversation.  Then,  in  the  way  once  sweetly  ha- 
bitual, there  came  a  rapping  at  the  door,  the  entrance  of 
a  servant,  and  the  announcement,  ^'C'e  il  signorino." 

Aurora  for  a  second  either  did  not  really  grasp  the  im- 
port of  the  words  or  did  not  trust  her  senses.     She  asked : 

''What  signorino?    Signorino  What?" 

''The  signorino  who  has  come  back,"  said  the  servant, 
unable  on  the  instant  to  recall  the  foreign  name.  And  if 
he  had  felt  interest  in  the  complexion  of  one  so  far  removed 
from  him  as  his  mistress,  he  might  have  seen  her  turn  the 
hue  of  a  classic  sunrise. 

416 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  417 

On  her  way  down  the  stairs  Aurora  rejected  the  idea 
of  a  tumultuous  reproachful  greeting,  such  as,  "Where  have 
you  been  so  long,  you  mean  thing?"  Or  of  a  cool  and 
cutting  one,  such  as,  ''You  're  quite  a  stranger."  She 
decided  to  behave  like  a  nice  person,  and  show  respect  for 
her  friend's  freedom,  after  having  so  explicitly  left  it  to 
him. 

The  Italians  performing  the  service  of  the  house  ar- 
ranged it  according  to  their  own  ideas  of  fitness,  and  on 
this  warm  afternoon  the  drawing-room  was  in  soft-colored 
twilight,  the  Persian  blinds  being  clasped,  and  their  lower 
panels  pushed  out  a  very  little  so  as  to  let  in  a  modicum 
of  the  whiteness  of  day. 

Gerald  stood,  very  collected,  if  a  trifle  pale,  holding,  like 
a  proper  votary,  a  bouquet — starry  handful  of  sweet  white 
hedge-roses, — which  he  offered  as  soon  as  Aurora  entered, 
saying  he  had  picked  them  for  her  that  morning  in  the 
country  near  Castel  di  Poggio. 

The  meeting,  in  Aurora's  jubilant  sense  of  it,  went  off 
beautifully.  She  said  in  a  pleasant,  easy  tone  and  her 
company  English, 

"So  you  've  got  back.  It  's  awfully  nice  to  see  you 
again.  How  well  you  are  looking.  I  was  sure  a  change 
would  do  you  good." 

And  Gerald  said  yes,  he  had  found  the  sea  air  tonic. 
He  had  been  staying  with  the  Johns,  Vincent's  mother 
lived  in  Leghorn.  He  had  worked  a  little,  made  a  few 
drawings.  Digressing,  he  mentioned  a  trifling  gift  he  had 
brought  her,  and  produced  a  small  brass  vessel,  fitted  with 
two  hinged  lids,  meant  to  contain  grains  of  incense  for  the 
altar.  He  said  he  had  found  it  in  an  antiquarian's  shop 
and  thought  she  might  care  for  it  to  drop  her  rings  into; 


418  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

he  supposed  she  took  them  off  at  night.  Its  shape  seemed 
to  him  to  possess  more  than  common  elegance. 

Aurora  called  it  adorable,  and  his  giving  it  to  her  sweet. 
They  talked  as  if  they  had  been  making  believe,  for  the 
benefit  of  an  audience,  to  be  the  most  ordinary  friends. 

And  each  of  them  meanwhile,  with  heart  and  head  gone 
slightly  insane  in  secret,  was  considering  a  marvel.  The 
long  separation — it  had  been  long  to  them — had  recreated 
for  both  something  of  the  capacity  to  receive  a  fresh  im- 
pression of  the  other.  The  marvel  to  Aurora  was  that 
this  choice  being,  with  his  intellectual  brow  (that  was 
her  adjective  for  Gerald's  brow)  his  difference  from 
others,  all  in  the  way  of  superiority  to  them,  the  indescrib- 
able fascination  residing  in  his  every  feature,  mood,  or 
word,  should  be  walking  the  world  unclaimed  and  unat- 
tached, for  her  to  take  if  she  were  so  minded.  Her  to 
take !     It  was  vertiginous. 

And  the  marvel  to  him  was,  in  beholding  that  bounteous 
temple  of  a  soul,  with  its  radiance  of  life,  its  share,  so 
rich,,  of  the  mj^sterious  something  which  made  the  earliest 
men  care  to  build  homes;  its  gifts,  so  large,  of  comfort 
and  warmth — the  marvel  was  that  he  should  have  dared 
aspire  to  conquer  it,  should  have  set  that  to  himself  as 
a  thing  he  was  going  to  persevere  in  trying  to  do  until — 
until  he  had  done  it,  he,  puny,  poor  in  inducements,  light 
of  weight. 

The  two  of  them,  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  it,  had 
passed  within  the  portals  after  which  a  change  comes  over 
the  eyes,  and  those  who  enter  see  each  other  endowed  with 
qualities  raising  the  capacity  for  wonder  to  an  ecstasy: 
so  much  engaging  beauty,  so  much  dearness,  are  not  to 
be  believed !  ...  It  can  never  be  established  whether  the 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  419 

eyes  only  see  truly  when  under  this  charm,  or  whether  then 
more  than  at  other  times  illusion  makes  of  them  its  fool. 

If  he  had  been  analytical  on  the  subject  of  his  sentiment 
for  Aurora,  as  so  often  on  other  subjects,  and  said  to  him- 
self that  he  saw  this  woman  in  a  golden  transfiguring  light 
because  he  was  in  good  primordial  fashion  in  love  with 
her — because,  that  is  to  say,  obscure  affinities  of  flesh  and 
blood  united  with  the  esteem  created  by  her  virtues  to 
make  of  him  a  candle  which  the  touch  of  her  finger-tip 
miraculously  could  light — he  would  have  felt  it  as  a  blessed 
and  not  a  base  secret  at  the  bottom  of  his  attachment. 

While  they  talked  of  the  weather,  as  they  fell  to  doing 
when  they  had  disposed  of  the  subject  of  the  little 
incense-holder;  and,  after  that,  while  they  talked  of  Leg- 
horn and  the  various  seaside  places  which  Aurora  had  to 
choose  from  for  her  summer  sojourn,  a  vastly  deep  con- 
versation was  taking  place  between  them,  which  we  think 
it  not  amiss  to  report,  because  by  the  nature  of  things 
the  words  they  would  say  aloud  on  this  occasion  would  be 
meager  and  colorless  by  comparison  with  the  things  they 
would  feel  and  to  some  extent  convey  to  each  other  through 
mere  proximity. 

*'0  Aurora,"  exhaled  from  Gerald,  while,  looking  not 
far  from  his  usual  self,  he  said  that  Ardenza  by  the  sea,  a 
mere  three  miles  from  Leghorn,  was  a  very  pretty  place, 
*' Aurora,  you  are  warmth,  you  are  shelter,  you  are  rest. 
I  have  no  hearth  or  home  except  as  you  let  me  in  out  of 
the  desperate  cold  of  loneliness,  and  grant  me  to  warm 
myself  at  your  big  heart.  You  should  see,  woman  dear, 
that  my  thankfulness  would  make  you  happy.  Nature, 
the  divine,  so  formed  you  that  my  love  would  kindle  yours. 
And  when  you  had  given  your  hand  into  mine  I  should 


420  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

find  paths  of  violets,  enchanted  paths,  for  us  to  walk  in 
which  you  could  never  find  without  me,  nor  I  find  for  my- 
self. Put  up  no  petty  shield  against  me,  Aurora;  fight 
me  with  no  petty  lance,  for  I  verily  am  that  guest  you  were 
awaiting  when  on  balmy  spring  evenings  you  felt,  and 
knew  not  why,  that  your  life  was  incomplete. '* 

And  Aurora,  mechanically  pulling  off  her  rings  and 
putting  them  into  the  brass  receptacle,  then  taking  them 
out  of  it  and  putting  them  back  on  her  fingers,  while  she 
chattered,  describing  the  advantages  of  a  furnished  villa 
at  Antiniano,  to  be  preferred  because  they  were  some 
Italian  friends  of  Leslie's  who  desired  to  let  it,  was  in  her 
inmost  speaking  to  the  inmost  of  Gerald.  The  hardly 
self-conscious  meanings  within  her  bosom  made  as  if  an 
extension  of  her  in  the  air,  comparable  to  the  halo  around 
the  moon  on  a  misty  night ;  and  this  atomized  radiance  had 
language,  it  said:  "Oh,  to  draw  your  head  down  where 
it  desires  to  be!  To  warm  and  comfort  you!  To  be  to 
you  everything  you  need !  I  lean  to  you,  I  cling  to  you  like 
a  vine  with  every  winding  tendril.  But  I  am  so  afraid  of 
you !  so  afraid !  I  am  of  common,  you  of  finest,  clay.  How 
can  I  give  into  any  hand  so  much  power  to  hurt  me?  If 
I  were  to  dare  it,  then  find  I  could  not  make  you  happy, 
your  disappointment  would  be  my  heart-break,  and  my 
tragedy  might  spoil  your  life.  But  this  know,  Gerald, 
dearer  to  me  for  having  been  so  unhappy,  nothing  my  life 
could  'contain  without  you  would  seem  to  me  so  good  as 
life  with  you  in  a  poor  workman's  attic,  under  falling 
snow,  and  I  to  make  it  home  for  you ! ' ' 

While  two  souls  thus  trembled  and  gravitated  toward 
each  other,  bathing  in  each  other's  light,  it  is  almost  mor- 
tifying to  have  to  show  to  what  degree  that  which  took 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  421 

place  at  the  surface  was  different  and  inferior;  to  what 
degree  the  fine  abandon  of  words  spoken  and  actions  per- 
formed in  thought  was  replaced  by  a  shivering  prudence 
keeping  guard  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  a  deplorable 
timidity  trying  awkwardly  to  be  bold. 

Heard  through  the  door,  the  scene  that  ensued  between 
these  two  curious  lovers,  when  they  had  worked  their  way 
through  preliminaries  and  come  to  the  point  at  which  they 
had  parted  after  the  day  at  Vallombrosa,  must  particularly 
have  seemed  lacking  in  purple  and  poetry ;  for  then  the  soft 
light  in  Aurora's  eyes  would  not  have  been  seen,  nor  the 
deep  flash  in  Gerald's,  as  he  by  a  point  scored  felt  himself 
nearer  to  the  goal. 

' '  Now,  what  made  you  run  off  like  that,  I  want  to  know, ' ' 
Aurora  asked  in  the  flowing  American  which  she  reserved 
for  real  friends  and  sincere  moments,  ''after  you  'd  said 
when  you  left  me  at  the  door,  'Good-by  till  to-morrow'?" 

"My  reasons  were  several,  all  simple,"  he  replied,  with 
a  faun-look  up  from  the  corner  of  his  eye,  which  watched 
her  expression.  "First,  I  wished  to  flee  from  that  news- 
paper article — dreadful ! — till  the  danger  of  any  reference 
to  it  in  my  hearing  was  greatly  reduced.  Then,  aside  from 
a  slight  natural  need  to  recover  myself,  I  felt  I  must  for 
manners'  sake  allow  a  little  time  to  pass  before  I  ap- 
proached you  again  on  the  subject  of  marrying  me.  One 
scruples  to  make  himself  a  bore.  It  therefore  would  be 
better  not  to  see  you,  and,  in  order  not  to  see  you,  better 
not  to  be  in  town.  Lastly,  Auroretta,  I  conceived  the  in- 
fernal ambition  to  make  you  suffer  from  absence  the 
minutest  fraction  of  what  I  should  suffer  myself." 

"Don't  say  a  word!  I  've  missed  you  so  my  bones  felt 
hollowed  out!" 


422  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

"Reflect  then,  my  dearest,  upon  the  sufferings  you  are 
preparing  for  yourself  if  you  have  n  't  a  kinder  answer  for 
me  than  the  other  day  to  the  same  question.  All  the  rea- 
sons you  gave  for  saying  no  were  such  bad  ones,  founded 
upon  a  bad  opinion  of  me.  I  can*t  take  your  refusal  for 
final,  don't  you  see,  without  first  being  sure  I  have  con- 
vinced you  at  least  that  you  are  wrong  in  thinking  me  a 
fish  or  a  mudturtle,  and  wrong  in  attributing  a  lack  of 
intelligence  to  me  which  could  betray  me  into  confusing 
great  things  with  little,  little  with  great." 

"Oh,  Gerald,  you  oughtn't  to  keep  on  trying!  I  do 
wish  you  would  n  't !  No !  Don 't  say  any  more  about  it ! " 
she  pleaded  in  weak  anguish.  "You  oughtn't  to  go  on 
battering  against  the  little  bit  of  common  sense  I  Ve  got 
left." 

"Common  sense!  I  advise  you  to  speak  of  it!"  he  af- 
fected to  jeer,  remarkably  braced  by  her  misery.  "Com- 
mon sense,  as  represented  by  a  decent  concern  for  your 
good  name,  ought  to  prompt  you  enter  as  quickly  as  you 
can  into  an  engagement  with  me.  I  met  our  dear  Doctor 
Batoni  in  the  street  yesterday  on  my  way  home  from  the 
station,  and  he  amiably  asked  how  was  my  fidanzaia,  or 
betrothed?  It  was  a  difficult  moment  for  me,  because  he 
told  me  that  you  had  told  him  you  were  that." 

"I  told  him  nothing  of  the  sort!  I  said  I  was  your 
friend,  in  French." 

"A  friend,  in  French,  may  mean  a  good  deal.  Save 
your  reputation,  dear;  I  give  you  the  chance." 

"What  nonsense !  I  explained  to  him  as  well  as  I  could, 
in  French,  that  I  was  there  taking  care  of  you  because  I 
was  your  friend." 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  423 

''You  are  hopelessly  compromised.  Look  to  me  to  set 
you  right." 

"Gerald,  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind." 

''Ah,  I  see  that  your  prejudices  hold  firm.  I  was  afraid 
of  it  when  I  came."  His  mask  of  flippancy  slipped  for 
a  moment;  deep  feeling  made  his  voice  uncertain.  "I  am 
not  that  hardy  and  masterful  man,  Aurora,  who  could 
break  them  down  and  clutch  you  above  their  ruin.  But 
you  will  find  me  very  faithful  to  a  hope — which,  in  fact,  to 
relinquish  now  would  be  beyond  what  I  can  expect  of  my 
courage."  He  resumed  bluffness.  "I  told  Vincent  he 
might  look  for  my  return  to-morrow. ' ' 

' '  No,  sir ! "  she  came  out  with  lively  directness.  ' '  You  're 
not  going  back  to  Leghorn  if  I  can  help  it !  I — I  have  a 
plan." 

*'You  have  a  plan?  From  your  face  I  am  afraid  not  a 
good  one.    You  look  so  dubious. ' ' 

"Perhaps  it  is  n't  a  good  one,  but  it  's  the  only  way  I  can 
see.  Listen."  She  looked  down  at  her  hands,  and  kept 
him  waiting.  "One  evening  last  winter  at  a  party  a  young 
Italian  naval  officer  got  talking  to  me  in  a  green  bower 
under  a  pink  paper  lantern  away  from  the  rest.  Some- 
thing in  the  atmosphere,  I  guess,  made  him  want  to  talk 
to  somebody  of  his  love-affairs,  and  he  chose  me,  though 
we  scarcely  knew  each  other.  He  told  me  he  had  been 
very  much  in  love  with  an  American  girl,  but  they  had  n  't 
the  money  to  marry  on  or  the  hope  of  ever  having  it — 
like  Brenda  and  Manlio  at  first.  Yet  they  couldn't  keep 
apart,  and  so  they  just  became  engaged,  knowing  it  could  n't 
end  as  an  engagement  is  supposed  to  do.  In  that  way  they 
could  see  each  other  all  they  wanted,  and  be  seen  together 


424  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

without  anybody  making  a  remark.  And  then  when  she 
was  obliged  to  go  home  and  it  had  to  end,  it  looked  merely 
like  a  broken  engagement." 

*'And  you  propose — " 

**  We  might  try  it,  Gerald.  Then  if  it  did  n't  worl^  well, 
if  I  found  I  was  all  the  time  outraging  your  sensibilities, 
and  you  hurting  my  feelings,  we  'd  call  it  off.  In  any 
case  we  'd  give  ourselves  plenty  of  time  to  realize  our 
foolishness.  And  you  'd  promise  that  when  the  time  came 
you  'd  go  like  a  lamb,  with  a  pleasant  face,  not  saving  up 
anything  against  me.  Make  up  your  mind,  now,  that  it  '11 
have  to  be  a  long,  long  engagement — if  we  don't  repent  and 
break  it  off  inside  a  week.  But  as  it  seems  so  likely  we 
will,  let  's  don't  tell  the  others  right  off,  Gerald;  not,  any- 
how, for  a  week  or  ten  days." 

*' Admired  Aurora,  it  surely  is  the  most  immoral  proposi- 
tion that  ever  came  from  fair  lady  so  well  brought  up  as 
you!"  cried  Gerald,  in  a  proper  state  of  excitement.  But 
yet,  such  were  his  limitations,  nothing  in  any  proportion 
with  the  throbbing  fire  inside  him,  the  immensity  of  his  in- 
credulous joy,  appeared  on  his  outside,  where  merely  the 
mollified  lines  of  his  face  gave  him  a  look  of  greater  youth, 
and  his  cool-colored  eyes  let  through  a  faint  testimony  of 
the  inward  light.  ''I  accept  without  hesitation.  I  prom- 
ise whatever  you  ask.  From  this  moment  onward  we  are 
fidanzati,  then.  And,  my  blessed  Auroretta,  you  who  are 
such  a  hand  at  calling  names,  have  your  servant's  permis- 
sion to  call  him  all  the  names  you  can  think  of  that  signify 
an  ineffable  blunderer  on  the  day  when  you  succeed  in 
freeing  yourself  from  him!" 

Many  more  things  were  said,  not  worth  recording.  But 
at  last  devout  silence  reigned.     In  the  twilight  room,  with 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  425 

all  the  bad  pictures  and  trivial  ornamentation,  to  shut 
out  the  offense  of  which  he  had  once  closed  his  ej^es,  Gerald 
now  closed  them  again  to  concentrate  more  perfectly  upon 
the  rapture  of  feeling  Aurora's  shoulder  beneath  his  cheek. 


CHAPTER  :^xni 

THE  servant  who  opened  the  door  for  Leslie  on  this 
softly  brilliant  June  morning,  being  well  accus- 
tomed to  admitting  her,  obligingly  anticipated  her 
question,  "Are  the  ladies  at  home?" 

''The  signorina  is  in  the  salottino/'  he  said.  From 
which  Leslie  understood  that  the  person  whom  she  chiefly 
had  come  to  see  was  out.  It  did  not  really  matter,  for  she 
had  time  to  wait.  Aurora  was  likely  to  come  back  for 
lunch. 

She  released  the  man  from  attendance  by  a  little  wave 
of  her  hand,  ''Never  mind  announcing  me!'*  and  directed 
her  footsteps  toward  the  tall  white-and-gold  door  standing 
partly  open. 

On  her  way  to  it  she  picked  up  off  the  floor  a  small  lawn 
handkerchief. 

The  ball-room  impressed  her  anew  as  being  very  vast, 
very  empty,  furnished  almost  soMy  as  it  was  by  the  spar- 
kling chandeliers,  every  pendant  of  which  to-day  was  gay 
with  reflections  of  the  green  and  flowery  and  sun-washed 
outdoors. 

She  turned  toward  the  saloitino,  remotely  wondering  by 
what  chance  Estelle  was  preferring  it  to  the  favorite  red 
and  green  sitting-room  upstairs.  The  salottino  had  utility 
when  a  party  was  going  on,  but  to  sit  and  embroider  or 
study  French  surrounded  by  all  those  fountains  of  love.  .  .  . 

A  sharp  bark  preceded  the  tumbling  out  through  the 

426 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  427 

salottino  door  of  a  little  white  mop  on  feet.  Upon 
recognizing  Leslie,  this  performed  evolutions  expressive  of 
great  joy. 

She  had  stopped  to  pat  the  excited  little  swirl  of  silk 
when  Estelle  came  forward  to  see  who  was  there. 

With  delighted  good  mornings  the  women  exchanged  the 
foreign  salute,  which  Leslie  had  adopted  and  Estelle  sub- 
mitted to,  a  mere  touching  of  cheeks  while  the  lips  kiss 
the  air. 

They  sat  down  on  the  rococo  settee  to  talk,  Leslie,  quick 
of  eye,  wondering  what  had  happened  to  give  Estelle  that 
unusual  air,  an  air  of — no,  it  was  indefinable.  Excitement 
had  a  share  in  it,  and  possibly  chagrin,  and,  it  almost 
seemed,  exaltation.  The  chief  thing  about  it,  however,  was 
that  she  was  trying  to  conceal  it ;  doing  her  best,  but  it  was 
a  poor  best,  to  appear  natural.  Leslie  graciously  allowed 
her  to  suppose  she  was  succeeding,  and  entered  at  once 
upon  the  reason  for  her  early  call. 

''I  really  think,  Estelle,  that  the  villa  at  Antiniano 
would  suit  Aurora.  As  for  you,  I  am  positive,  my  dear, 
that  you  would  adore  it.  It  is  a  little  out  of  the  thick  of 
things,  but  has  a  very  fine  view  of  the  sea,  also  a  very 
pretty  garden.  Certain  conveniences,  of  course,  it  has  n  't, 
but,  then,  you  must  n  't  expect  those  of  an  Italian  villa. 
I  saw  Madame  Rossi  yesterday,  and  she  said  she  wished  you 
would  make  an  excursion  to  Antiniano  to  see  for  your- 
selves. She  is  sure  you  would  be  charmed.  One  request 
she  would  make :  that  the  peasant  family  be  allowed  to  con- 
tinue in  their  little  corner  of  the  house,  where  they  would  n  't 
be  the  least  in  your  way,  and  then  that  the  little  donkey 
should  be  allowed  to  remain  in  the  stable.  But  in  return 
you  could  use  him,  she  said," 


428  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

''Ridehimr' 

"Yes,  or  harness  him.  For  the  country,  why  not,  my 
dear?     They  are  ever  so  strong  little  beasts." 

/Estelle  began  to  laugh,  presumably  at  the  picture  of 
Aurora  on  donkey-back,  or,  with  herself,  exhilarating  the 
country-side  by  the  vision  of  them  drawn  in  a  donkey- 
cart.  Leslie  joined  in  her  merriment,  but  expostulatingly, 
and,  warned  by  a  note  in  Estelle's  laugh,  watched  her  with 
suspicion  while  it  developed  into  a  nervous  cackle.  She 
saw  her  cover  her  eyes  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other 
vainly  feel  in  her  pocket.  She  was  crying.  Leslie  ten- 
dered the  little  handkerchief  found  on  the  floor,  and  knew 
then  that  it  had  dried  tears  before  on  that  same  day.  She 
waited,  tactfully  silent,  merely  placing  a  condoling  hand 
over  her  friend 's. 

''I  might  as  well  tell  you,"  Estelle  got  out,  when  her 
crying  fit  permitted  her  to  speak,  "that  Aurora  is  n't  going 
to  take  any  villa  at  Antiniano  this  summer.  .  .  .  She  's 
gone  away." 

"Gone  away?  What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Leslie,  sur- 
prised into  a  very  complete  blankness  of  expression. 

"What  I  say."  And  in  her  incalculable  frame  of  mind 
Estelle  again  was  laughing.  "Oh,  I  don't  know  which  to 
do,  whether  to  laugh  or  cry!"  she  explained,  with  eyes 
bright  at  once  from  laughter  and  from  tears.  "One  mo- 
ment I  laugh,  next  moment  I  cry.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  walk- 
ing in  my  sleep.     I  guess  what  I  need  is  a  nerve-pill." 

"You  say  that  Aurora  has  gone  away.     Where?" 

"Where  Gerald  pleases,  I  guess.     She  's  gone  with  him." 

"With  Gerald?  Now,  my  dear  friend,  please  explain. 
You  laugh,  you  cry.  You  say  Aurora  has  gone  away  with 
Gerald.     Please  collect  yourself  and  tell  me  what  it  means. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  429 

*Gone  away  with  Gerald.'  How  do  you  mean  gone  away 
with  him?" 

* '  I  mean  they  have  eloped,  or  as  good  as. ' ' 

''No,  no;  people  don't  elope  when  there  is  neither  an 
inconvenient  husband,  nor  unamenable  parents,  nor  any 
possible  reason  why  they  should  not  have  each  other  if 
they  wish  to." 

"I  wonder  what  you  would  call  it,  then.  As  late  as 
twelve  o'clock  last  night  I  didn't  know  a  thing  about  it, 
and  this  morning  early  they  left  together  in  a  carriage, 
with  her  trunk  strapped  on  the  back." 

Leslie  lifted  her  hands  to  her  temples  and  pressed  them 
as  if  to  keep  her  head  from  a  dangerous  expansion  with  the 
size  of  the  new  idea  that  must  find  a  home  there. 

"So  it  was  in  earnest ! ' '  she  said  aloud,  yet  as  if  speak- 
ing to  herself.  "Mother  has  won  her  bet,  and  I  have  lost. 
Well," — she  tossed  her  head  and  faced  Estelle, — "I  am 
glad  of  it.  We  knew,  of  course,  that  there  was  something, 
and  we  felt  that  nothing  nicer  could  happen  than  that  they 
should  make  a  match  of  it.  Mother  prophesied  they  would. 
But  I  did  not  believe  it.  I  was  afraid  of  Gerald — that  dis- 
position in  him  to  consider  too  finely,  to  halt  on  the  brink, 
that  negative,  renunciatory  way  he  has  settled  into.  I 
thought  the  thing  would  end  in  mere  philandering.  I  am 
glad" — she  threw  the  weight  of  conviction  on  the  word, — 
"glad  it  hasn't!  I  don't  see,  my  dear  Estelle,  what  you 
can  find  to  cry  about." 

' '  Is  that  the  way  it  strikes  you  ? ' ' 

"My  dear,  I  couldn't  say  which  I  thought  the  luckier, 
Gerald  to  get  Aurora,  or  Aurora  to  get  Gerald." 

"You  surprise  me.  To  me  it  seems  just  about  the  riskiest 
combination  that  could  be  imagined.     I  have  felt  it  all 


430  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

along.  Those  two  have  no  more  in  common,  I  have  said, 
than  a  bird  and  a  fish." 

** Nonsense,  my  dear  girl!     Nonsense!" 

* '  I  have  heard  him  get  so  impatient  with  her  because  sim- 
ply she  didn't  pronounce  a  word  right.  I  've  seen  him  so 
annoyed  he  nearly  trembled  trying  to  choke  it  down." 

''But  did  she  mind?     I  mean,  his  impatience?" 

"I  can't  say  she  did;  but — " 

' '  There  you  have  it.  They  are  marvelously  suited.  Lis- 
ten and  let  me  talk  to  you  for  your  comfort.  This,  do  you 
hear,  is  exactly  the  most  delightful  thing  that  could  have 
happened.  Haven't  you  noticed  that  complex  natures  are 
rather  given  to  uniting  with  simple  ones,  and  finding  hap- 
piness with  them?  An  artist — how  often! — marries  his 
model,  a  philosopher  marries  a  peasant." 

"Go  on ! "  sighed  Estelle.  " Go  on !  I  love  you  for  mak- 
ing me  feel  better ! ' '  Her  eyes  moistened  again  in  an  al- 
most luxurious  melancholy. 

' '  One  of  the  reasons  for  mother  and  me  wishing  for  this 
consummation  was  the  broadening  of  life  it  would  afford 
Gerald.  Gerald  doesn't  think  about  money.  Aurora's 
money,  all  the  same,  will  do  a  lot  for  him  in  making  pos- 
sible his  getting  away  from  here,  where  the  truth  is  he 
stagnates.  Then,  too,  she  will  cure  him  of  his  morbidness. 
He  sees  red  if  one  so  much  as  breathes  the  suggestion  that 
his  art  is  morbid.     But  of  course  it  is." 

"Aurora  said  they  might  go  to  live  in  Paris,  because  she 
thought  it  would  be  good  for  his  art." 

'  *  Now  that  's  what  I  want  to  hear  about.  Go  on  and  tell 
me  what  Aurora  said  and  what  happened  between  midnight 
and  their  extraordinary  elopement,  as  you  call  it.    But, 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  431 

first  of  all,  why,  in  the  name  of  common  sense,  did  they 
elope?     From  what  did  they  elope?" 

"From  me,  I  guess.  I  don't  see  what  else.  Oh,  yes,  I 
do.  From  the  talk  there  would  be.  But  principally,  I  sus- 
pect, he  hurried  her  into  it  to  make  sure  of  her,  for  she, 
too,  had  her  moments  of  doubting  the  wisdom  of  what  she 
was  doing.  That  much  I  know.  They  had  only  been  en- 
gaged two  weeks,  and  all  that  time  I  did  n't  even  know  they 
were  engaged.  I  hadn't  been  nice  about  Gerald,  I  feel 
bound  to  confess,  so  she  thought  best  not  to  tell  me.  She 
didn't  want  to  hear  how  I  would  take  it,  we  've  been  so 
used  to  speaking  our  minds  to  each  other.  He  came 
oftener  than  ever  and  stayed  longer,  till  it  got  so  I  made 
a  point  of  getting  up  and  making  an  excuse  to  leave  the 
room.  It  was  my  way  of  being  spiteful.  But  Nell 
didn't  take  it  up  with  me  in  private,  as  I  expected  she 
would.  They  were  tickeld  to  death  to  have  me  leave  the 
room,  I  can  see  now.  She  went  around  the  house 
singing  an  Easter  carol  and  fixing  flowers  in  the  vases,  with 
a  look  of  cheerfulness  apart  from  me  that  made  her  seem 
like  a  stranger.  I  was  pretty  sore,  I  can  tell  you,  but  I 
wouldn't  speak  of  it.  I  don't  know  how  I  thought  it 
would  end.  Funny,  I  can't  remember  how  everything 
looked  so  short  a  time  ago  as  yesterday,  but  I  know  I  was 
eaten  up  with  mean  thoughts.  I  went  to  bed  last  night 
thinking  to  myself,  'Well,  Nell  Goodwin,  if  you  think  (  'm 
going  to  stand  much  more  of  this,  you  're  mistaken. 
There  '11  be  some  plain  talk  before  long.'  And  I  fell  asleep. 
First  thing  I  knew  I  was  awake,  looking  to  see  who  'd  come 
into  my  room.  And  there  was  Nell  in  her  night-dress, 
holding  her  hand  round  the  candle  so  it  wouldn't  shine  in 


432  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

my  eyes.  I  simply  can't  tell  you  what  it  was  like, — the 
candle  lighting  nothing  but  her  made  her  seem  like  a  vision 
in  the  middle  of  a  glory.  Nobody  can  know  how  fond  I 
am  of  Nell,  what  friends  we  've  been  since  little  bits  of 
girls.  All  I  could  think  of  was  that  she  'd  come  to  make 
up  with  me,  she  couldn't  wait  another  minute.  It  would 
have  been  just  like  her.  And  while  I  waited  for  her  to 
speak  first,  I  thought  with  my  heart  just  melting  what  a 
lovely  big  thing  she  is,  with  that  sort  of  fair  look  to  her 
neck,  and  those  warm  cheeks,  and  something  so  kind  about 
her  from  head  to  foot.  She  put  down  the  candle  and,  in- 
stead of  going  into  explanations,  bent  over  and  gave  me 
a  good  hug.  And  I  said,  hugging  back:  ^You  better  had, 
you  horrid  thing!  You  better  had!'  Then  she  sat  down 
on  the  bed.  'Hat,'  she  said,  'I  was  going  to  do  a  mean 
thing,  but  I  'm  not  going  to  do  it.  I  was  going  to  slip 
away  without  a  word,  but  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  the  whole 
story.     I  'm  going  to  marry  Gerald,'  she  said. 

''Then  she  went  on  to  tell  me,  and  what  do  you  think,  I 
didn't  say  one  word  in  objection,  not  one!  Because  I 
could  see  she  was  dead  in  love,  and  what  was  the  use  except 
to  spoil  her  happiness,  and  I  did  n  't  want  to.  She  told  me 
how  they  'd  decided  it  would  be  just  as  well  not  to  wait, 
but  take  a  short  cut.  If  they  stayed  in  Florence,  she  said, 
she  'd  feel  they  must  have  a  big  wedding  and  ask  all  their 
friends,  and  then  she  should  have  to  have  a  trousseau;  it 
would  all  take  lots  of  time,  and  Gerald  would  so  hate  the 
fuss  and  the  chatter.  So  they  'd  made  up  their  minds  to 
go  off  to  Leghorn  without  a  word  to  anybody, — whose  busi- 
ness is  it  anyhow  but  their  own? — and  be  married  just  as 
soon  as  it  could  be  done,  where  they  would  n  't  get  so  much 
as  the  echo  of  any  remarks  on  their  haste  or  the  way  they 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  433 

preferred  to  do.  She  '11  be  staying  with  Mrs.  Johns  till 
the  ceremony.  She  said  she  should  write  your  mother 
from  there.  Then  she  showed  me  Gerald 's  ring  that  she  'd 
been  wearing  on  a  chain  round  her  neck  where  I  would  n't 
see  it,  and  she  talked  about  Gerald 's  wonderf ulness.  She  's 
perfectly  wrapped  up  in  him.  All  I  hope  is  he  appreciates 
it.'^ 

"His  inducing  her  to  elope  with  him  would  seem  to  in- 
dicate some  warmth  of  feeling  on  his  part.  The  sugges- 
tion can  hardly  have  come  from  her." 

"You  're  right.  I  guess  it  's  as  bad  with  him  as  with 
her.  She  talked  about  the  wonderfulness  of  his  love,  such 
as  she  never  could  have  believed,  and  never  could  deserve. 
She  said  she  could  be  happy  with  Gerald  in  a  garret  that 
let  the  snow  leak  in.  Oh,  they  're  both  crazy.  What  do 
you  think  she  gave  as  one  reason  for  this  haste?  'Life  is 
short,'  she  said,  'and  love  is  long!'  Gerald  must  have  said 
it  to  her  before  she  said  it  to  me,  but  what  do  you  think 
of  it?     'Life  is  short  and  love  is  long!'  " 

"Do  you  mean" — asked  Leslie,  with  the  least  touch  of 
severity, — "that  I  ought  to  share  in  a  cynical  view  of  that 
saying?  I  can't,  my  dear  Estelle.  There  are  my  father 
and  mother,  you  know.  In  their  quiet  way  they  bear  out 
the  idea  that  love  may  be  as  long  as  life." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Estelle  hurriedly,  with  a  faint 
air  of  shame.  "My  father  and  mother,  too,  make  a  united 
couple. ' ' 

"My  belief  is  that  when  two  people  marry  who  are  in 
love  as  they  ought  to  be,  and  who  in  addition  are  good — 
By  good  I  think  I  mean  people — "  Leslie,  with  her  look 
of  wisdom  beyond  her  years,  paused  to  take  a  survey  of 
life,  " — people  who  have  a  sense  of  the  other  person's 


434  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

rights,  and,  as  a  matter  of  heart,  not  principle,  feel  the 
other's  claims  just  a  little  more  strongly  than  their  own — 
in  the  case  of  such  people,  when  the  passion  they  marry  on 
dies  out  with  their  growing  older,  as  we  generally  see  it 
do,  something  takes  its  place  that  deserves  the  name  of 
love  every  bit  as  much." 

*' Aurora  is  good,"  said  Estelle,  from  her  soul.  **You 
would  never  know  how  good  unless  you  had  stood  in  need 
of  kindness." 

*' Gerald  is  good,  too,"  said  Leslie,  with  an  effect  of  more 
impartiality  but  no  less  positiveness.  ''He  would  disdain 
to  be  anything  else." 

''What  is  wrong  with  me  is  that  I  'm  selfish,  I  guess," 
said  Estelle,  looking  contrite,  "and  don't  like  having  to 
give  her  up  to  him,  after  all  the  beautiful  things  we  'd 
planned  together.  What  I  ought  to  feel  is  nothing  but 
thankfulness  for  her  having  such  a  chance  of  happiness, 
and  then  thankfulness  for  all  she  did,  trying  to  make  up 
for  her  desertion." 

Without  transition,  Estelle  went  back  to  the  story  of  the 
past  night.  ' '  You  can  imagine  there  was  n  't  any  more 
sleep  for  that  spell.  I  got  up,  and  we  went  to  her  room, 
where  she  had  all  the  lights  lighted  and  was  in  the  middle 
of  packing  her  trunk.  She  only  took  one,  and  about  a 
quarter  of  her  things.  Gerald  's  going  to  design  wonder- 
ful costumes  for  her,  the  style  he  prefers.  I  could  see  she  's 
ready  to  do  just  anything  to  please  him.  I  'd  already  no- 
ticed how  she  'd  altered  her  way  of  doing  her  hair,  but 
wasn't  smart  enough  to  recognize  the  signs!  .  .  .  While 
she  was  at  work  packing  she  planned  for  my  summer — that 
I  'm  to  invite  Mademoiselle  Durand  to  go  traveling  with  me, 
so  I  can  improve  my  French  at  the  same  time  as  give  that 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  435 

poor  hard-working  creature  a  real  vacation  and  treat. 
Then  when  they  go  to  Venice,  she  wants  me  to  join  them, 
and  the  three  of  us  have  a  regular  jamboree.  Then  next 
winter,  after  I  've  got  home,  she  wants  me  to  go  to  Colorado 
to  visit  the  Grand  Canon  and  see  the  great  sights  of  my 
native  country  before  settling  down  again  in  East  Boston. 
She  made  me  a  present  of  Ami." 

^'Ami?" 

"I  Ve  changed  his  name  from  Busteretto.  Don't  you 
like  it  better?  Little  Tweetums!  He  's  the  only  darling 
I  've  got  left ! ' '  She  pressed  a  kiss  on  the  warm  top  of 
his  head.  *'She  made  me  a  present  of  all  the  clothes  and 
things  she  wasn't  taking  with  her.  She  made  me  a  pres- 
ent of  everything  in  this  house  that  we  didn't  find  in  it 
when  we  took  it — turned  it  all  over  to  me  to  do  what  I 
please  with.  And  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do 
with  it  all  unless  I  set  up  a  store.  Anything  you  see  and 
think  you  'd  like  to  have,  please  say  so." 

*'She  gave  you  all  these  things?  Do  you  mean  it?" 
asked  Leslie,  surprised  despite  what  she  had  already  known 
of  Aurora. 

**Yes,  and  along  with  the  things,  of  course,  the  respon- 
sibility of  settling  up  everything,  dismissing  the  servants, 
sending  Liwy  back  to  New  York.  Such  a  job !  Luckily, 
there  *s  no  hurry ;  the  lease  does  n  't  expire  until  October. 
When  you  came  I  'd  been  sort  of  looking  round.  I  was 
just  wondering  what  to  do  about  this  Fountain  of  Love. 
Nell  paid  a  frightful  lot  for  these  four  panels.  I  'd  been 
trying  to  see  if  they  could  be  carefully  peeled  off  and  the 
wall  behind  restored,  and  while  I  was  looking  the  sight  of 
that  winter  scene  broke  me  all  up.  It  doesn't  tell  a  very 
cheerful  tale;  you  know,  this  series  of  pictures.    After  what 


436  AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

I  *d  just  been  through,  saying  good-by  to  them,  it  worked 
on  me  like  a  bad  omen. ' ' 

** Don't  be  foolish.  Then  you  saw  Gerald,  too,  before 
they  left?'' 

''Yes.  I  could  have  done  without,  but  she  'd  have  been 
hurt.  So  I  shook  hands,  and  managed  to  wish  him  joy. 
He  was  nice,  but,  then,  Gerald  always  is  that.  I  've  never 
for  a  moment  said  anything  different.  He  said  he  wanted 
me  to  feel  that  I  had  n't  lost  a  sister,  but  acquired  a  brother. 
Just  as  they  were  driving  off  I  remembered  something,  and 
called  after  Nell,  'What  about  your  portrait?'  for  I  could  n't 
think  she  meant  to  give  me  that  along  with  the  rest.  Gerald 
said  before  she  could  speak,  'Take  it  away!'  And  Nell 
said  right  off,  '  Oh,  yes.  Keep  it,  Hattie ;  keep  it ! '  That 
lovely  portrait  he  painted  of  her!  I  don't  see  how  she 
could  bear  to  part  with  it.  But,  of  course,  now  she  has 
him  she  can  have  as  many  portraits  as  she  wants.  Come 
and  tell  me  what  you  think,  whether  it  would  be  safe  to 
pack  it,  frame  and  all,  or  better  to  unframe  it,  or,  better 
still,  to  take  the  canvas  off  the  stretcher  and  roll  it." 

Accordingly,  they  left  the  room  of  the  cupids  and  gar- 
lands, traversed  the  vasty  ballroom  where  the  chandeliers, 
like  two  huge  ear-rings,  divided  up  the  light  into  twinkling 
diamond  and  rainbow  showers,  entered  the  drawing-room 
of  the  dignified  sixteenth-century  chairs,  which  from  the 
first  had  suffered  an  undeserved  neglect,  and  passed  thence 
into  the  familiar  parlor  of  the  multitudinous  baubles  and 
the  grand  piano  and  the  portrait;  performflig  in  the  con- 
trary direction  the  pilgrimage  on  which,  at  a  period  which 
seemed  so  immemorably  far  as  to  have  become  legendary, 
Gerald  had  followed  Aurora  walking  before  him  with  a 
light. 


AURORA  THE  MAGNIFICENT  437 

They  stood  beneath  the  portrait,  and  with  the  image  pres- 
ent to  their  minds  of  painter  and  sitter  hasting  on  their 
-way  to  be  wed,  saw  this  equivocal  masterpiece  with  a  differ- 
ence. Not  Aurora  alone  looked  forth  from  the  canvas, — 
throat  of  lily,  cheek  of  rose,  heaven-blue  eyes,  smile  and 
ringlets  of  immitigable  sunniness.  Gerald,  self -depicted  in 
every  subtle  brush-stroke,  looked,  too. 

"It  takes  sober,  solid,  careful  people  to  be  interesting 
when  they  commit  a  rashness,"  thought  Leslie.  Then,  with 
a  little  surge  of  envy  in  her  well-regulated  breast,  "To  be 
swept  off  one's  feet,''  she  thought,  "how  educative  it  must 
be,  how  enlarging." 

But  a  doubt  fell,  shadow-like,  across  her  vision  of  future 
fortunes.  If  a  person  never  found  it  possible  to  fall  in 
love  with  those  who  fell  in  love  with  her,  would  it  neces- 
sarily follow  that  the  Some  One  she  should  someday  love 
would  regard  her  with  coldness? 

Estelle  gazed  upward  at  the  portrait  with  a  wistful,  well- 
nigh  solemn  look.  Not  being  able,  hampered  by  a  dog  in 
her  arms,  to  clasp  her  hands,  she  expressed  the  same  im- 
pulse by  clasping  the  dog  close  to  her  breast  in  token  that 
her  wishes  for  her  dearest  friend's  good  were  more  than 
wishes,  were  a  prayer. 

She  felt  a  hand  laid  lightlj^  on  her  forearm. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,"  said  Leslie,  "they'll  be 
happy." 


THE  END 


THIS  BOOK  IS  T^TTT. 

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